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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24151102">What do You Want? (With a Devil Like Me)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/BuckyBarnes8999/pseuds/BuckyBarnes8999'>BuckyBarnes8999</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Captain America (Movies), Daredevil (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Punisher (TV 2017), X-Men - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Blood and Gore, Blow Jobs, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Child Murder, Drug Use, Drugs, Dubious Consent, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Gay Sex, Heterosexual Sex, M/M, Murder, Past Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Penis In Vagina Sex, Prostate Milking, Prostitution, Recreational Drug Use, Rough Sex, Russian Mafia, Sharing a Bed, Somnophilia, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers is a dummy, decomposing bodies, mafia</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 19:27:45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>42,581</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24151102</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/BuckyBarnes8999/pseuds/BuckyBarnes8999</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He had blood caked under his fingernails, staining his hand all the way to his wrist, which was hidden well, under a smart jacket. The other hand was hidden in a thin leather glove.<br/>He didn't seem to care and that was the trouble. He had to have a handler go with him on hits now for fucks sake.</p><p>Things had nearly gone south after he passed out cold after taking the shot a month ago. Goddamned junkie.<br/>But who could blame him when it was his very lifestyle that enabled his habit? When his employer was the one who provided his fix?<br/>His drug use had ramped up. It was almost more than he was worth to keep him supplied.</p><p>But hell, he was the best at what he did, even if he had to be reigned in at times.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>James "Bucky" Barnes/Original Female Character(s), James "Bucky" Barnes/Piotr Rasputin, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Snow, glistens on the ledge, Whisky on the bed</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He had blood caked under his fingernails, staining his hand all the way to his wrist, which was hidden well, under a smart jacket. The other hand was hidden in a thin leather glove.<br/>
He didn't seem to care and that was the trouble. He had to have a handler go with him on hits now for fucks sake.</p><p>Things had nearly gone south after he passed out cold after taking the shot a month ago. Goddamned junkie.<br/>
But who could blame him when it was his very lifestyle that enabled his habit? When his employer was the one who provided his fix?<br/>
His drug use had ramped up. It was almost more than he was worth to keep him supplied.</p><p>But hell, he was the best at what he did, even if he had to be reigned in at times.</p><p>But showing up to a meeting, stinking of stale liquor, coated in blood and cracked out?<br/>
No, that wouldn't fly.</p><p>Now he sat in front of his boss's desk, fidgeting, bouncing his leg. While he usually preferred a downer--- opioids, he'd done a few lines of coke in the car on the way over, so he could be alert.</p><p>Tony Stark looked over his polished mahogany desk at his most valuable Asset.</p><p>"You're slipping, soldier." He stated firmly.</p><p>The other man tilted his head up to regard his boss. His bloodshot, ice blue eyes seemed to lag behind the motion of his head, slowly dragging up to meet Tony's.</p><p>"The mark is dead. What's your problem?" His voice held the remnants of an accent.</p><p>Tony raised an eyebrow. "My problem, kid, is that you're getting sloppy. When I ask you to be present at a meeting with our allies, I expect you to have some respect for yourself-- for <i>me</i>. Take a goddamn shower maybe?"</p><p>"Listen, boss, you can have me present  or clean."</p><p>"Then I guess, sober is really out of the question, right, James?"</p><p>James scoffed. "I'm exactly as sober as I ever want to be."</p><p>"Fucking Russians." Tony said under his breath.</p><p>James slammed his fist to the surface of Tony's desk. A kinetic sculpture and a pen holder were upended.<br/>
"I was <i>sold</i> to those <i>fucking Russians</i>!" He shouted, accent thickening. "Fucking crack whore mom."</p><p>"And look at you falling so far from the tree." Tony rolled his eyes, righting the items on his desk.<br/>
Fuck but Tony's words cut, mostly because of their truth. James needed a fix.<br/>
He fiddled with the glove on his left hand, fucking around with the Velcro in such a way that made Tony want to smack him. </p><p>Sighing, Tony leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes in an effort to ground himself. "How do you think it makes me look to our allies and potential business partners when I can't keep you reigned in.<br/>
They told me that buying your contract from the Bratva was a stupid move but I didn't listen."</p><p>"Anything else boss?" James scoffed after an uncomfortable silence. </p><p>"I've got some surveillance footage for you. Supposed to be a reward for a job well done but I'm thinking maybe it'll clear your fool head up a little. Let you know what is at stake for you." Tony got up and tossed him a vhs tape from a nearby shelf.</p><p>James caught it deftly in his left hand. His heart was pounding. "I don't know if I want this." He stated, voice hiding his emotions well. There were few things that still elicited that kind of response from him--- an emotion. The main one was in the contents of that tape.</p><p>"Sure you do." Tony sat back down. "You can go now, I'll get in touch with your next assignment." He promised. </p><p>"And James?"</p><p>"Yeah?" </p><p>"Take a fucking shower." </p><p>He gave Tony the finger and exited the office.</p><p>James was left to go about his business. His business suddenly became sitting in his shithole apartment, staring at a VHS tape as though it offended his ancestors.<br/>
The unassuming black rectangle sat on his coffee table amid old syringes and burnt spoons. </p><p>Angrily, he stood and ripped off his suit jacket, tie and shirt. Where his left hand touched, fabric actually tore. His gleaming metal left arm was no match for the clothes.<br/>
He stomped to the tiny kitchen and poured himself some milk, smelled it then tossed it. He settled for stale coffee from two nights ago, still in the pot.</p><p>He wasn't even thirsty but he drank, he wasn't hungry in the least but he made himself a cheese sandwich. </p><p>His gaze kept flitting to that loathsome VHS tape.<br/>
Finally, after much deliberation he sat down on his stained sofa and crammed the tape unceremoniously into the VCR. </p><p>He knew he'd need a fix after this so while the tape wound up he placed all the accoutrement of his drug habit in a neat line.  </p><p>The footage wasn't CCTV, it was crisp and clear and there was sound. Tony had collected this for him specifically. </p><p>She was what? Five now? Six? James hated himself for losing track. Hated himself for not knowing. </p><p>The little girl with eyes like James's played happily on a playground with a gaggle of other kids.<br/>
He smiled with a kind of sorrowful satisfaction when she socked the playground bully in the nose. </p><p>The footage ended and another clip started after a moment of static. </p><p>Directly in her classroom at school, James knew he should feel uncomfortable with this. This was as much of a threat as it was a reward, a little glimpse into her life. </p><p>They could get this close to his daughter. </p><p>She was a good student, she could already read and write passably. Got gold star stickers and everything. </p><p>The clip James couldn't stand was the one of her adoptive parents playing with her in their backyard. She was happy, he was glad she was happy of course.<br/>
What kind of sick fuck would he be if he begrudged his daughters happiness?<br/>
No he hated that he wasn't a part of that happiness.<br/>
They didn't even call her what James had named her: Sashenka<br/>
. . . Susan they called her. <i>Susan</i>. </p><p>He let the TV go to static and prepped his drugs.<br/>
Cotton.<br/>
Spoon.<br/>
Fire.<br/>
Needle.</p><p>He opened a panel in his arm and moved some of the delicate wiring away.<br/>
What a lot of people didn't understand was that a huge part of his artificial appendage was biological. Blood ran through it. He had feeling in it, it <i>hurt</i> all the time.<br/>
He rooted around til he found a valve in the blood tubing and injected himself.</p><p>He slumped back on the sofa, arm open, eyes glassed, mind numbed. </p><p>He didn't realize he'd blacked entirely out until someone was knocking loudly on the door.<br/>
He jolted upright and yanked the needle from his body, closed the panel and pulled on an old tee shirt.</p><p>He made not a sound as he picked up his piece and made his way to the door.<br/>
Nobody came here, nobody he knew anyway. He kept a distinct line between business and his home.<br/>
He peered out the peephole, he didn't recognize the two men in fancy suits standing there. One was a giant blonde side of beef and the other was also blonde, smaller, built compact but definitely made for agility.<br/>
The smaller man knocked again and crossed his arms, exasperated.<br/>
When the bigger of the two sighed, putting his hands on his hips, James caught sight of his weapon holster---<br/>
and his gun. </p><p>Police issue Glock 19. Standard grip, nothing fancy. Likewise with the holster, police issue shoulder strap. </p><p>"Mr . . .Zimn---- Zimniy , we know you're home." It was the taller, stumbling over his last name. "This is about your neighbor Mrs Castle."<br/>
The dishy brunette across the hall?<br/>
When he'd first moved into this apartment, James had been stupidly friendly with her, accepted dinner invites, watched movies with her. She'd just lost her husband in Iraq, he could sympathize. He'd lost many people he cared for on the front lines of a different kind of war.<br/>
But he forgot his work didn't afford him friends.<br/>
The ultimatum he'd gotten from Tony about it set him straight.</p><p>"Just got out of the shower!" James called as he moved back deeper into his apartment. He raked off his coffee table into a small trash can.  He threw on a zip up hoodie and a glove after wetting his hair down in the sink.</p><p>He opened the door with a less than clean towel around his neck. His gun was now tucked into his waistband in the back. </p><p>"How can I help you gentlemen?" He asked, attempting to be charming, not realizing what a pale ghost of an imitation he was to his former self. A self who could charm the pants off just about anyone.</p><p>"I'm agent Rogers and this is agent Barton." The bigger one-- Rogers, stated, flashing a badge.</p><p>"May we come in?" The one named Barton asked. </p><p>"That serious?" James asked. James wondered what Mrs Castle could have done that'd be reason enough for two guys--- James was sure we're feds--- to get involved. </p><p>They both nodded. James sighed and stepped aside to allow entry. It was always better to cooperate when the law didn't seem to be onto him. Oh he'd had a few close calls but these two seemed to have no clue.<br/>
He was glad now that he'd cleaned up a little. How would he have explained all the black tar heroine and used syringes?</p><p>He offered them a seat on the couch and took a straight backed chair from the tiny desk he never used, for himself.</p><p>The two men sat somewhat uncomfortably on the couch. "Mr. Zimniy--- am I saying that right?" Barton asked.</p><p>"Passable." James shrugged.</p><p>Rogers was looking at James strangely, his eyebrows knit.<br/>
It made James feel a little uncomfortable, the intensity of it. He was so preoccupied with the way Rogers was looking at him that he missed what Barton had said. Thus had to ask him to repeat himself.</p><p>"Your neighbor, is dead, Mr Zimniy."</p><p>James felt his stomach drop, his veins ran in ice.<br/>
"Dead, how?"<br/>
His mind raced, he'd only <i>just</i> seen her. And what kind of death got the feds involved and not just the local screws? </p><p>"It looks like a suicide from our reports.<br/>
. . But there are some suspicious things.  For instance someone entering her apartment and moving the body post mortem." Barton said, snapping James back to the present.. "We were wondering if you maybe saw anything suspicious? Noticed odd behavior, odd visitors?" </p><p>James still had that same sinking feeling in his gut. No, he didn't notice anything weird. . . Not that he noticed many things these days.<br/>
He was kicking himself. Three days ago she'd asked him to come over, just to talk. He'd refused. . . What if he could have. . .? </p><p>"What was that, agent?" He had to ask once again.</p><p>"Other than her mother in Colorado, and her dead husband, you were the only contact in her phone." Barton repeated. </p><p>"No I. . . That can't be right. But. . . But she never had anyone over at her place, I tried. . . I tried being her friend." James shook his head, he was starting to panic a little, blame himself for her death, she had been the closest approximation to a friend he had. "Um. . . Can. . . Can you leave me your card?" </p><p>"Actually Mr. Zimniy. . ." Barton opened the briefcase he carried and placed a piece of paper and an ink block on the coffee table.<br/>
"We got a partial left hand print off one of the windows of her apartment, male. We we're wondering if perhaps you'd oblige us?" He turned the opened ink block toward James.<br/>
Oh<br/>
He was a suspect?<br/>
He slowly shook his head. "I'm definitely not your guy if you're looking for a left hand print. He took off his glove slowly flexed his metal fingers. Both agents looked a bit startled.<br/>
Rogers looked. . . Pained? </p><p>"But I'll give you a print of it if you need it." He reached for the ink block but Barton snapped it closed.<br/>
"Not necessary. Thank you for your time. We will be in touch." Barton handed him his card and stood. Rogers looked like he wanted to linger. The guy was seriously freaking James out.</p><p>When he finally stood and also passed a card to James he pressed it firmly into his palm. </p><p>James was glad to see the back of those two.<br/>
He watched from the window to make sure they exited the building before collapsing onto the couch. </p><p>This was the last thing he needed. Two feds in his home, his neighbor dead. He'd have to tell Tony he needed to relocate. It wasn't like moving would be a big deal, he didn't really own anything other than a few clothes and a TV.</p><p>Sighing he turned the cards over in his hands. When he looked closely at the one from Rogers his heart practically stopped.<br/>
<b>"Call me. 9pm tonight. I know you."</b> Was written on it.<br/>
What in the fresh hell did that mean? <i>He knew him?</i>.</p><p>His phone was in his hand a second later dialing Tony.</p><p>________________________</p><p>"What was with that dopey look you had on your face the whole time we were talking to that guy?" Barton asked once they were back in their car. </p><p>"Dopey look?" Rogers fastened his seatbelt and kept his expression neutral.</p><p>"Yeah like he'd kicked your puppy." Barton sipped his stale and cold coffee it had just enough cream and sugar in it to make drinking it cold passable. "I don't know about you but the guy kinda gave me the creeps." He shuddered visibly. </p><p>"You're scared of prosthetic limbs!" Rogers groaned. "Anyway I think I'll pass on dinner tonight. Tell Laura I'm sorry."</p><p>"Third time this month you're bailing on us, man, she's not gonna forgive too easy soon." Barton chuckled. "Hot date?"</p><p>"Feeling. . . Under the weather." Rogers lied. Barton gave him a sidelong look.</p><p>"Okay so don't tell me, Steve. Your loss anyway, Laura is making that cheese and potatoes thing you like." Barton pulled away from the space they'd parked in. "With the ham."</p><p>They headed toward Steve's apartment rather than out of the city toward Barton's house.</p><p>Steve was pensive the whole ride, didn't even sing along with Barton to the shitty 90s love songs Barton liked to play.</p><p>"So it looks like our only suspect is a dud eh? Metal arm and all." Barton tried engaging him with the case. He hated the silence.</p><p>"Yep. Frustrating." Steve sighed. "Clint, I'm telling ya something is weird about the whole thing. I mean from the ground up. The case, that guy. . . I mean something has to be up if they called <i>us</i> in on this case." He shook his head. "I'm gonna put in some extra work reviewing files tonight."</p><p>They pulled up to Steve's building and Steve apologized again for missing dinner.</p><p>When he was in the comfort of his own place, Steve calmly showered, microwaved some leftovers and settled into his sofa. He tried telling himself the man they'd questioned wouldn't call, that James wouldn't call but he sat staring at his phone anyway.<br/>
When nine o clock rolled around he was startled out of a half sleep by the loud ringing. </p><p>He scrambled to grab the device and checked the number. He wasn't familiar with it so answered it immediately. "Rogers here." He said heart leaping in his chest. What he was about to do was so out of line.</p><p>At first he was met with silence but then heard a sigh on the other end of the line.<br/>
"How do you know me?" Came James's voice, crackling over the airwaves. </p><p>"I. . ." Steve hesitated then he just couldn't stop himself. "Your names not Zimniy. It's Barnes. I don't know where you got the accent from but you're from Brooklyn."</p><p>There was a heavy silence from the other end of the phone. It stretched on for so long that Steve checked to see if the call was still connected.</p><p>"James? Bucky?" </p><p>"Who the hell is Bucky?" The line went dead.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. My Heart and Soul Were never mine to own. (What you care to die for?)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>James is freaking out about Rogers. He thinks he may have a solution to his problems but Tony gets first priority.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Gore warning for this chapter, still gratuitous drug use and graphic depictions of murder. RIP. Enjoy. You've been heckin warned. </p><p> </p><p>Wanna chat? Follow me on Instagram @BuckyBarnes8999 I post tons of random BS.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>James sat in his darkened apartment shaking no <i>trembling</i>. He jumped at every sound. </p><p>His first instinct was to call Tony but he hadn't been any help earlier.<br/>
He'd told him that moving out of the apartment would just make him more suspicious. He had told him he had to stay put. So, no, he didn't call Tony after all.</p><p> </p><p>Who the <i>fuck</i> did this Rogers guy think he was? </p><p>He'd called him. . . <i>That Name</i></p><p>James shuddered, hugging himself. Though it was mid summer. </p><p>He turned Rogers' card over and over in his hand, looking at the small, neat handwriting.<br/>
He knew who he could call about the situation. He knew he could solve things quick.<br/>
But it would mean betraying his boss, betraying Tony. Fuck, it might even mean getting Sashe--- Susan hurt. </p><p>His heart was pounding, he paced, unable to keep still. </p><p>His nervous energy led him to actually shower and change clothes for the first time in days.<br/>
The water ran rusty red off his body. </p><p>When he was sitting on the couch again rolling a bottle of warm beer  between his palms, he stared at his phone.</p><p>"Fuck it!" He said out loud to the empty apartment and snatched the device off the table. Tony be damned he needed peace of mind. Didn't he at least deserve that?</p><p>His fingers dialed a number familiar to him as breathing. </p><p>"джеймс?" A deep voice answered the call after two rings. </p><p>James's heart practically stopped, he hadn't heard this voice since Tony had bought him out. That had been what, three years ago?</p><p>"дa" he finally managed saying. "It's me." </p><p>There was a deep laugh on the other end of the line. "Must be a big thing for you to call me. Not that I'm complaining. You eating enough? I can get maybe Natasha to bring you some Shchi and Blini." </p><p>James swallowed the lump of apprehension in his throat.<br/>
"No, no, Piotr I need a favor from <i>you</i>." He put enough emphasis that he'd be taken seriously, that the point would come across. </p><p>The line was silent for a time. "You know you can kill easier than me. It's your second nature, дa?"</p><p>"No no! Not killing. Information. Someone. . . Someone said they know me. Not from Moscow, from here." James sighed heavily. "I'm actually scared Piotr."</p><p>"You know my price and where to meet me. Tomorrow. Don't make me wait, don't be high." The line went dead. </p><p>James nearly crushed the phone in his metal grip. Why was everyone on his case about the drugs? He <i>needed</i> them, couldn't they see that? He sighed, dropping his phone down onto the couch beside him.<br/>
Well, if it made any difference, he wasn't touching the heroin tonight. No, he needed to be alert in case.  . . . In case of what? Would that Rogers character come back?</p><p>James couldn't really be sure. Regardless, he had to be ready for any eventuality. So his choice of vice that night was down to either Meth or Coke. The meth would ramp him up, but make him jittery and more than a little paranoid. The coke would wear off too quickly.</p><p>Sighing, knowing he'd need a little sleep before his meeting he did a fat line of coke. He collected the little he missed with his finger and rubbed it frantically into his gums. </p><p>The night wore on uneventfully. Time was measured in white lines. James cleaned his kitchen, constantly checking to make sure his piece was on hand.<br/>
He showered again-- twice. He made food and threw it out.  </p><p>Eventually the coke ran out and he was forced to embrace the crash. He slept slumped over the tiny kitchen table, gun clutched tight in his hand. </p><p>He woke up to his phone ringing, he was sticky, having sweat profusely in his sleep. Fuck if he wasn't going to have to take <i>another</i> shower.</p><p>His brain wasn't firing up right. He stared at his phone for a long time while it rang, trying to decipher the name on the caller ID. His mind kept trying to translate the English letters into Cryllic ones and it wasn't working.</p><p>Eventually, just before it went to voicemail he answered. "Mr. Stark?" He rasped, throat dry and raw. Had he had a nightmare? Screamed himself hoarse in his sleep again? </p><p>"Good to see you're. . . Spry this morning." Tony's voice was particularly grating for James today. "Did you calm the fuck down about that cop?"</p><p>"He wasn't just a <i>cop</i>, boss." James straightened up and tried ignoring how his back popped. "But. . . Yeah, yeah I'm good now." He lied, but he'd be good soon, right? If Tony didn't find out what he was up to.</p><p>"Good. . . Good. Listen, I've got a job for you, Anastasia. I'll send a car around for you. Fifteen minutes."  He heard Tony take a sip of something. "File will be in the car as usual." </p><p>"How long will it take?" James asked, trying to keep his heart rate in check as well as his tone.</p><p>Tony scoffed, then broke out into a full laugh. "You got something better to do? I own your frost bitten Russian ass. You'll do whatever I need you to, however long it takes." </p><p>James's flesh hand shook as it held the phone. He'd belonged to someone else since he was nine years old. Autonomy was important to him at least the illusion of it. He liked to pretend. He liked to imagine he had his own free will. He wanted to be a deadly assassin right? He wanted to be an amazing marksman with an even more amazing kill count, didn't he?<br/>
Didn't he?<br/>
It was always jarring when something broke the illusion. Tony had a knack for it. James didn't know if Tony knew. Something told him he did. Tony was smart and knew how to exploit weaknesses. </p><p>"Understood." He croaked into the phone adding a terse "Sir." For good measure. </p><p>"Good." Tony responded then hung up. </p><p>James checked the time on his phone and nodded. He'd make this the most efficient job he'd ever done. Fuck Tony. </p><p>He stalked to his room, carefully lifting his dresser with his metal hand. It was alarmingly stronger than his natural arm. It was one of the reasons he never really held Sashenka when she was first born. It was dangerous. He kicked himself for that now.<br/>
Goddamn that tape.<br/>
He had to force the thoughts away.<br/>
He held his dresser up while he unlocked a safe hidden there. Inside was his gear. Tactical vest, a mask and goggles, his rifle, and several thousand dollars in cash.<br/>
He put it all minus the cash in a duffel bag and went out the window onto the fire escape.<br/>
He sat like that perched on the edge of the metal structure until he saw the car pulling around for him.</p><p>The driver was always instructed to call when they arrived but James was always there before the car came to a full stop.<br/>
It always startled whoever was driving that day.<br/>
James took his seat in the back and stripped down to change in the tight confines of the vehicle. He threw on the tactical vest, put on some eyeblack to negate the sun and tied his hair back.<br/>
This driver he knew, nice guy, didn't try to make small talk, didn't steal glances at his metal arm.<br/>
Before putting his mask on, he contemplated long and hard about having just one bump of something.<br/>
He shook his head to himself. He had a meeting after this and, fuck what did it mean that he cared about showing up high to that and not for his own boss? </p><p>Again he shrugged his thoughts off and began thumbing through the file.<br/>
Tony was really thorough. Usually James only required a photo and a location. Tony provided <i>evidence</i>. He wondered if the man was justifying the killing to himself or for James.<br/>
James didn't care. He didn't care who or why he killed. It was his job. And for chrissakes it's what Tony bought him for! He made a mental note to be an ass to Tony about guilt and having a conscience in their line of business. </p><p>The mark was a young man who worked for a law office downtown. It seemed he was moonlighting as a gossip columnist. Printing some pretty nasty (true) rumors about what Stark Industries--- the legitimate face of Tony's underworld--- was doing on the side. </p><p>Tony had a way of setting up convoluted situations for his marks. This time the mark thought they were meeting some snitch down by the docks. Stark Industries docks. </p><p>James was let out a mile from the location. He preferred it that way so he could scope out the terrain. Find any outs, find any people that didn't need to be skulking around. Most of the time the trek was uneventful but today? No such luck. </p><p>The mark wasn't a total idiot. He had a lookout. Just one. Collateral damage. Sorry, stranger.</p><p>James snuck up behind the man, fitting his goggles down over his eyes. James was silent like a wolf on the snow.<br/>
He drew his knife and made quick work of him, blood washed down from where James slit his throat. He tried to make a sound but James's hand was there covering his mouth. He sank down to the ground with him and shushed him as he died. There was a mercy, right? When he didn't let them die alone? He looked them in the eye. They always looked so afraid or shocked. Like this didn't come eventually, one way or the other. </p><p>He spoke softly in Russian to the man til the life was gone behind his eyes. </p><p>James dripped blood as he climbed a tower of shipping containers. One of which now housed a fresh corpse.<br/>
He settled down between two containers, the space barely big enough for his frame. He used the scope on his rifle to spot his mark. </p><p>There he was, standing in the open by the water. His face was contorted in concern, he had a cell to his ear.<br/>
The container below him rang. He'd have to take care of that. </p><p>With a soft exhale he focused on the mark.<br/>
He looked younger in person, barely out of college. Again, it didn't matter to James. </p><p>He lined up his shot just as he was making another call. James's eyes trained on his lips, reading them expertly. </p><p>"Hey sweetie, it's daddy, can you put mommy on the phone?" The mark was saying. In James's head and with no context of the mark's voice it was James's own that said it.<br/>
James never pulled the trigger faster in his life. He made a slight mess of it. Not a clean shot,  brain and blood flew everywhere and the mark twitched on the ground. Convulsing, still alive.</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>James jumped the entire way down from the stack of containers. He broke his fall with his metal arm and shrugged off the pain. </p><p>He'd made an entire cockup of this. He approached the mark and squatted down beside him. "It's okay." James spoke to him.</p><p>His forehead was largely missing and he was spitting blood and teeth. James wasn't sure if he could still hear him but he talked to him as he began his work. </p><p>He pulled the shattered, slightly smoking cellphone from his hand and tossed it into the water. </p><p>"Things like this happen sometimes. Sorry, just business." James murmured as he put his hand around the young man's neck and squeezed.<br/>
It was over quickly, aided by James's hand.<br/>
He gurgled his last breath and James sighed in relief at it being over. </p><p>This was really where James differed from other killers of his status. He was hands on, intimate. He could step in and kill someone with his bare hands not just pull a trigger from yards away and walk off.</p><p>He scooped what brain and skull fragments he could up with his bare hands and dumped them into the water. Luckily the little paved section they were on was new, fresh and black. The blood didn't look so obvious once it was free of . . . Chunks. </p><p>He dragged the limp and lifeless corpse to the same shipping container he'd dumped the other body in. </p><p>When he was certain that he was all good and everything was taken care of he texted Tony the shipping container number.<br/>
Moments later the car was pulling around to extract him.<br/>
Tony was taking unnecessary risks having these things carried out on his own property. But it wasn't James's place to voice his concern on the matter. He was just the executioner. Judge and jury be damned.</p><p>Sighing he looked at the time. It had taken longer than he intended and he was late.<br/>
"Блять!" James swore under his breath.<br/>
He wouldn't have time to go home and change, wash the brains out from under his fingernails, from between the plates of his arm.<br/>
He asked the driver to take him to a little coffee shop within walking distance of his actual destination.<br/>
The driver nodded and James began putting his civilian clothes back on.<br/>
At least he could spare the time to wash his hands in the sink at the coffee shop. </p><p>The ride was quiet, slow, maddeningly slow, as was the way with travelling by car in Manhattan, but quiet still. </p><p>James found himself almost dozing off when the driver cleared his throat. They'd stopped right in front of the coffee shop.<br/>
"Thanks Happy." James murmured, leaving his bloodied duffel in the car. He knew it'd be taken care of.<br/>
"You be safe." That was the longest sentence the man had ever spoken to James. It almost made him laugh, but he nodded and walked into the coffee shop. </p><p>He placed his order for the biggest, strongest coffee they had, black and paid in a hundred dollar bill. He crammed the change into the tip jar and took his steaming to-go cup with him to the bathroom.</p><p>The noise of the busy shop made his skin crawl, he wasn't used to being . . . Social.</p><p>He'd just gotten the last of the tiny skull fragments out of the plate on his palm when he heard someone clear their throat behind him. </p><p>"James?" </p><p>He about jumped out of his skin. The goddamn cop! Or Fed! Whatever he was!</p><p>Here he was washing literal human bits off himself and here he was.<br/>
"Stalking me Rogers?" James tried to remain calm as he turned to face Steve.</p><p>"Wha-- no, I. . . This place is right by my apartment!" Steve handed James a paper towel. James wadded it around in his hands then tossed it without breaking eye contact. </p><p>"Oh." He stated dryly. </p><p>"Listen, I'm sorry about the phone call. . ." Steve stammered and James's eyes narrowed. "I. . . Are you wearing makeup?" </p><p>James rounded to face the mirror, fuck, he'd forgotten the eyeblack.<br/>
"I'm a closet goth, you caught me." He grumbled.  </p><p>"Right. . . Well, sorry again, I . . . I'll see you around, B--- James." Steve backed out of the bathroom, not hearing James'<br/>
"No you won't." As he left. He'd almost called James <i>That Name</i> again. Cursing under his breath he rubbed off all the eyeblack he could and thanked whatever god or devil that heard him that Rogers hadn't seen the blood in the sink.</p><p>What a strange encounter, he'd know the truth of Rogers's claims of it being close to his home soon enough. Then he'd know how to proceed. He'd know everything.</p><p>A quick scan of the shop told James that Rogers had left. He was so late for his meeting. Piotr wasn't going to be happy. </p><p>The walk was short but the sidewalks were crowded with people grabbing lunch, going about their busy days. </p><p>It was a very sleek modern building James walked into. He'd seen movies where all gang activity took place in warehouses in seedy parts of town, in back alleys and behind bars. If people only knew the opulence organized crime afforded. </p><p>He checked his piece with the receptionist.<br/>
She looked shocked to see him. Hell everyone he passed who knew him looked shocked to see him. Of course they were. He didn't belong here anymore did he?</p><p>Still, he held himself erect, not cowing under hard stares. He adjusted the sleeves of his slightly worse-for-the-wear grey button down, rolling them up to his elbows.</p><p>He boarded an elevator and went up twelve floors. This time when he entered the receptionist got to her feet.<br/>
"You know who I'm here to see." He told her gruffly and she buzzed him through. </p><p>Piotr was on the phone, standing by the window, speaking Russian in soft but no nonsense manner. He was good like that, his higher ups were wise to put him in the position they had. He had a rare calming effect. . . And of course when the calm didn't work, there was always his size. He was pushing seven feet tall and was absolutely <i>built</i>. They didn't call him The Collossus for nothing.</p><p>When he saw James entering the office he  quickly ended the call with whoever.<br/>
"You're late, James." He stated, slipping his phone into his breast pocket. "I asked you not to be."</p><p>James hung his head. "Yeah. I know, I'm sorry. I'm not high though, so. . . And I'm relatively clean." He shrugged, meeting Piotr's steel gray gaze.</p><p>"Your new boss works you too much. How many a week does this one need you to take care of?" Piotr didn't move from the window but did cross his arms, narrowing his eyes.</p><p>"Enough to give me very little free time. Ten, twelve this week? More last week?" James shrugged it was more than The Bratva would have had him do in a month-- two!</p><p>"Stark has a trail of blood behind him like the sea." Piotr commented. But wasn't it James that had the blood on his hands? </p><p> </p><p>"Tell me, James. To what am I owing this pleasure?"  Piotr finally got around to the business aspect of the visit. Good.</p><p>James took Rogers's card out of his pocket and handed it to Piotr. The card looked like a fortune cookie paper in his huge hand as he brought it up to read it.<br/>
"I need the full file on this man. From birth to now." </p><p>Piotr was silent a while while he contemplated James's request. "This is a federal agent of some type. Do you know the risk?" Of course he did. Do you know the <i>price</i>? Is what Piotr really meant.<br/>
"I don't see any suitcase of cash on you, Zimniy." It sent a little thrill through him to hear his last name said with such finesse. </p><p>James swallowed hard. "I was hoping I could pay you another way." He couldn't hide the apprehension as he turned away from Piotr and to the polished desk behind them.</p><p>His hands shook, he hesitated before unclenching his hands and spreading them on the desk. The posture he had to adopt was tense but clear. He offered himself up to Piotr's whim. </p><p>Piotr chuckled low behind him. He'd silently moved closer. How such a huge man managed that was beyond James. </p><p>"You think. . . You can pay like this, звезда моя?" Piotr's huge hand curled over James's metal bicep. "You're not a, a Шлюха, a whore." </p><p>James's splayed hands returned to fists, but he kept them on the desk. "Хуй." He breathed out softly. "I could be.<br/>
F-for you." He tried to keep his voice steady but what he was propositioning was something he'd never really expected to do.</p><p>"You'd never be able to take it." Piotr's lips were practically brushing James's ear now, he could feel his hot breath, smell the pastry he'd had for lunch. The tea he'd drank.</p><p>A shiver ran up James's spine at the thought. He'd played bodyguard for Piotr for a time. That is where the trust came from, the --- the--- James wouldn't call it friendship outright but they were. . . Comrades tentatively.<br/>
He'd seen the man in action. He'd seen the heat he was packing. </p><p>"Underestimating me?" James shot back "I thought you learned not to do that."</p><p>Piotr laughed low and sensual and it sent a thrill through James, knotting low in his gut. His resolve to do this was firm. It was the best he could offer. He couldn't spare the cash. It might not even hurt, if he played his cards right. </p><p>"Still will owe me a little favor." Piotr whispered, pushing James's upper body down onto the desk. God he was fucking huge, he dwarfed James and James was no small man. James watched him move in the reflection on the floor to ceiling windows. The way he moved, Piotr knew his size and knew how to articulate himself with grace. He likewise knew how to dress. The suit he wore was sinfully tight, one could see his individual muscles working beneath it.<br/>
James shook as that bear paw of a hand held him down, his breath fogged the polished surface of the desk. He could feel the heat of the other man against him as he stood looking down at him. "Last chance to say no, звезда моя." </p><p>James's breath came in a little sharply he was doing this, he had to. "I need this." He whispered with resolve. </p><p>He expected roughness, he expected Piotr to just have his way with him and kick him out. What he didn't expect was the kiss he placed on the back of his neck. Or the one to the side of it, just below his ear that followed.<br/>
James made a soft sound, fuck, his neck was sensitive. Another sharp sound was pulled from him when those Giant hands slid under his chest and tweaked both nipples through his shirt.</p><p>He was gently turned around. The Russian's thick fingers made short work of the buttons of his shirt. Lips met skin as it was revealed bit by bit. James couldn't help but groan, it had been a long time for him and Piotr's lips were so hot and soft against his skin.<br/>
The shirt was discarded carelessly on the floor by the larger man. </p><p>Years ago when they were both of a lesser position, Piotr had asked him for his. He'd kindly refused, stressing that it had only been because he was involved at the time.<br/>
Thus why he thought this might work out as payment.<br/>
He was pulled from his thoughts as Piotr bit down on his neck, right at the pulse. "Ah--hahh!" A sharp, shaky moan was pulled from James' lips.<br/>
A hot tongue soothed over the bite, followed closely by lips. Piotr diligently worked his mark onto pale flesh. James shivered and moaned softly, damn him for knowing this spot was his weakness.<br/>
Also damn him for marking him! It'd linger for days and remind him of this each time he caught a glance. Plus, it was evidence for other roving eyes.</p><p>How could he articulate though that he didn't want anything from this? How could he say that if he got off too, if he enjoyed himself, he'd feel the debt was unpaid? </p><p>He closed his eyes and endured. Piotr's hands, huge and rough slid over his bare chest, exploring. His mouth left fiery trails of kisses and praises in it's wake. </p><p>James felt like all the blood in his body was rushing south. His pants felt too tight over his cock. Piotr's hand coming to rest over it didn't help. "Хорошо, звезда моя."<br/>
He cooed and popped the button entirely off in his haste to get the pants from James's body.<br/>
James gasped at the show of strength, the force.<br/>
When James stood, heavily leaning back against the desk with his pants around his thighs and his cock standing proudly against his stomach, Piotr stood back admiring him.<br/>
"You're so pretty." He reached out and tugged the tie from James's hair, causing it to fall loose around his shoulders. </p><p>James was indeed a vision, he was panting, his cock leaked a few glistening beads of precum. He looked for all the world like the desk was his only anchor to the planet. His metal hand had scraped it up a bit and somehow it really turned Piotr on, that powerful mechanical marvel.</p><p>James watched as the man cupped himself through his slacks. The outline of his rigid prick was obvious. Huge and heavy, James imagined he wouldn't have been able to fit his fingers around it. </p><p>Terrifying to think it would be inside him sooner than later.  </p><p>Why on Earth he gasped out a heated "Hurry!" Was beyond him. He kept telling himself that he just wanted it over with.</p><p>He gasped out again when Piotr lifted him with one arm to get his pants the rest of the way down. His shoes flew in random directions as the pants were removed. Still using just the one hand, Piotr lay him back onto the desk and lifted one of his legs exposing him.</p><p>A dry finger the size of two of James's pushed inside him. James arched hard, crying out, squirming away only to be held down by a steel-like grip.<br/>
"Piotr!" He cried, still trying to escape the burn. </p><p>"This is payment, Да?" Piotr's finger didn't still and he was in to the knuckle far too quickly for something that size. Another was poised to push in too. "Meaning it's for me. Not you." </p><p>"Please!" He implored, the pain of the stretch was making his legs shake. This was a lot and he realized he had indeed secretly wanted Piotr to make it feel good.</p><p>Piotr clicked his tongue and shook his head dismissively. He slowly fucked James with that finger, watching the spasming muscles as it disappeared into his body again and again. </p><p>When he lined both digits up together and slammed the second finger in, James practically screamed. "Dramatic boy." Piotr cooed.<br/>
He wasn't being dramatic, Piotr was being overly rough. James's erection was flagging. "It hurts, Piotr. Piotr. . ."</p><p>"Thought it'd be easy to pay like this? Imagine when it's not just my fingers." So there was meant to be a lesson in this as well? Piotr steadily pumped the digits in James' ass, relishing the soft heat of him around them.<br/>
He scissored his fingers apart, admiring the way he could see the pinkness within as he did so. He was doing nothing to seek out James's prostate, didn't touch his now mostly limp cock.  </p><p>He drew pained gasp after pained gasp out of the man beneath him. Tears slid from the corners of James's eyes. He swore repeatedly in all the languages he knew. </p><p>Three fingers in and only wrecked sobs escaped his lips. Piotr's free hand had worked his cock back to full hardness but he was so overwhelmed. His whole body shook and he'd not even been given a taste of the huge Russian's cock.<br/>
"Still want to pay your way with your flesh, beautiful?" Piotr asked, leaning down to roughly mark James's neck again. </p><p>James heard a zipper being lowered. "Take it out." Piotr ordered as he stepped back a pace.<br/>
James whined, his body was practically jelly. Somehow he mustered the strength to sit up and grip onto the expensive leather belt that held Piotr's pants up. He steadied himself and reached in his hand almost recoiled when he touched the straining erection hidden in those expensive pants. It was huge. Just as huge as James feared. Long and thick.<br/>
He carefully slid it out, letting it spring free if it's confines.<br/>
It pulsed subtly. The flushed red tip leaked slick, clear pre.</p><p>James sat back, unable to look Piotr in the eye.<br/>
"Gonna kill me." He managed to mutter. </p><p>Piotr just chuckled amused at the young man and placed him back on the desk. </p><p>He had the good sense to cover James's mouth with his huge hand as he lined up and thrust in.  James took it all in one go. Piotr's pelvis slammed against his plush ass loudly. And God did he ever try to scream. He arched against him, he couldn't tell which way was up, he couldn't pull away. </p><p>He was prepped well enough that he didn't tear but fuck was it the most excruciating thing he'd ever felt. </p><p>He was fucked hard and fast, Piotr put his strength into it. The desk moved several feet, scraping the dark hardwood floors. James cried out so loudly he had to keep one hand over his mouth. </p><p>It was a shock to James to find himself cumming--- hard, very soon into the act.<br/>
Piotr smirked above him and popped his hips a little harder, fucking him through it.<br/>
He was just so <i>full</i>. It was so much. </p><p>James was borderline shocked when the pain ebbed and was replaced by a dull aching pleasure. He tried wrapping his legs around Piotr's waist but they wouldn't cooperate. Thankfully Piotr knew what he was trying to do and lifted them for him. </p><p>The smirking Russian slowed his pace and drew the first of a series of sweet moans out of James.<br/>
When this started, James had expected nothing but agony and to be left feeling like a cheap whore. But now it looked like he was on his way to multiple orgasms without having his cock touched. </p><p>Piotr now felt confident to remove his hand from James's face. It trailed over his neck, a light touch, intimate. James shivered as he squeezed a little.<br/>
Goddamn his sensitive neck<br/>
"Мне нравится когда ты трогаешь меня там!" James found himself gasping unable to resist.<br/>
Piotr laughed breathlessly and firmly squeezed the sides of James' neck as he snapped his hips.<br/>
James closed his eyes and let himself get lost in the feeling. Piotr was using him like a little rag doll and it didn't matter because his brain was finally clouding over with pure lust and that huge cock in him did things nothing else ever had. It couldn't help but to be constantly against his spot. </p><p>"Harder, Piotr." He gasped grabbing the hand around his throat with his metal one.<br/>
Piotr squeezed so hard James knew he'd have both bruises and a busted vessel in his eye but <i>goddamn</i> it sent James instantly hurtling over the edge. </p><p>He whited out, convulsed a little and came back to when Piotr began chasing his own release within James's body. He was back to that gruelling pace he'd started with. Wet, slick sounds filled the air.<br/>
Piotr's hips stuttered as he started to cum. James could feel the first hot ropes of cum like embers inside him. God! There was a lot of cum. He felt it spilling out of him as Piotr continued fucking him through. </p><p>James was gonna be useless for the rest of the day at the very least. Maybe even the next.</p><p>Piotr admired his work as he pulled out of the man, the small flood of cum from his pink hole was the almost enough to make him force another round on the man. But no, James had had enough. "I'll have your file ready in two days, Zimniy." Piotr cleaned his cock off with a handkerchief and tucked himself away. "Take your time getting dressed. I'll have a car take you home." Then Piotr disappeared into the hallway.</p><p>James would never admit to himself that the experience, while terrible, had also been amazing, likely the hardest he'd ever came. </p><p>It took a long while for him to collect himself, even longer to have any feeling in his legs. If only he could stave off the little waves of shame that were creeping up his spine--- at least until he could get a needle into his arm. </p><p>He went into the attached bathroom and sat on the toilet for a long while, head in his hands.<br/>
It didn't matter did it? What he did with his body? He was a tool to be used by the hands of others as it was. </p><p>He shook, he could still feel cum dripping out of him.<br/>
Sex had always been complicated for James. He tried telling himself he wasn't really into men. Sure he'd made some exceptions over the years but he hadn't bottomed but maybe twice.<br/>
He likewise always denied that when he was picking out porn he usually started out with normal straight porn. But it always ended up with him furiously stroking himself, moaning along to two muscular men fucking. And goddamnit the only woman he'd ever been able to really get it up for was in an unmarked grave somewhere out in the Taiga in Siberia.</p><p>Hell he couldn't do this right now.<br/>
He wouldn't let himself try to come to terms with anything right now---- not with his friend's cum dripping out of him, and an ache in his ass that being shot would be preferable to-- though it was weighing on him. </p><p>His hands touched the hot, painful bruises on his neck. He flinched from the coldness of his metal hand on the sensitive skin. </p><p>Grimacing he stood and used paper towels he wet in the sink to clean himself up. He yelped as he pushed his metal fingers inside himself. He'd miraculously tightened back up after all that. But he couldn't tell now if it were just swelling because <i>damn</i> it hurt. </p><p>He pulled on his rumpled clothes and tied his hair back.  The shoes were cursed out within an inch due to James having to bend awkwardly to get them on.</p><p>He paused to regard himself in the mirror. The bruises weren't hidden by his collar. There was a clear handprint forming and he was right that a blood vessel had burst in his eye, staining the sclera a brilliant red in one spot.<br/>
He frowned at himself something ugly flaring up inside him.<br/>
"Пидорас." He cursed at himself<br/>
His metal fist met the mirror and he walked out, forcing himself to walk normally.</p><p>The car was an ordinary looking taxi but James knew the driver. The Bratva owned most of the taxi services locally. This way though, it didn't look exactly suspicious to any of Tony's men who happened to be watching. He was just taking a taxi home. </p><p>He squirmed uncomfortably in his seat, focused more on the growing need for a fix than the pain he was in. </p><p>He practically leapt out when the Taxi pulled up to his building.<br/>
When he was in the stairwell he relaxed and let himself limp the rest of the way. He wondered if shoving an ice cube up his ass would help?<br/>
Sounded stupid but maybe.<br/>
He fished his keys out of his pocket and hobbled to his front door.<br/>
His mind was brought back to his present surroundings when a pair of scuffed back shoes were what came into view of his downturned gaze instead of his shitty doormat. </p><p>"Just when my day couldn't get worse." He groaned, not at the shoes of course but who filled them. </p><p>"Sorry it's official business." Rogers didn't sound sorry and he met James' glare with a half smile, he was holding a thin manilla envelope. </p><p>"Uh-huh?" James reached past him to unlock his door. "Go inside, I don't have time to fuck around."</p><p>Rogers's smile faded fully but he accepted the --- invitation?-- to enter the apartment. </p><p>"But don't test me. Don't be weird at me." James yelped when he threw himself on the couch. </p><p>Steve stood dumbly at the edge of the coffee table. "I'm. . . I'm sorry about the phone call I---" </p><p>James pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "I thought I told you not to be weird." He groaned. If Rogers only knew the lengths James was going to over that very call.<br/>
"What's the 'official business' Mr Rogers." </p><p>All James wanted was to either drown himself in the bath or mainline way too much heroin. </p><p>"Oh! Sorry." Steve took the chair James had sat in on their last visit. "I--- have you been in a fight?"</p><p>"No, I'm an international Hitman and it got messy." He snorted and Steve laughed. It was a deep, rich laugh. The kind James would have liked to hear if he weren't so utterly terrified of the man.</p><p>"I'm sorry. Mr Zimniy. Um, did Mrs Castle ever mention anything about having children?" </p><p>"Children?" James sat up, more erect. "No, no she never mentioned." </p><p>Steve sighed. "It seems that her mother had been taking care of her two kids, and they're missing now. They have been since the night if Mrs Castle's suicide." </p><p>It was like a ton of bricks fell on James. She'd never once mentioned kids and he'd even gotten a little bit drunk and rambled about Sashenka to her!</p><p>He paled she must have known something was up. Maybe it <i>wasn't</i> such a clear case of suicide. </p><p>"Oh God." He breathed showing Steve the first real emotional response he'd had so far. </p><p>Steve frowned. "I'd hoped you'd at least known something." </p><p>James shook his head. "No, I'm really sorry this time. I'll keep a watch over her place in case. In case. . . I dunno. . . Anything." </p><p>Rogers gave him another small smile. "We appreciate that. Here's a photo of the kids." He opened the envelope and passed a printed out photo of a young girl and boy. They looked like her. He wondered if he could actually be of any help. He did have training, he could spot little things others couldn't.</p><p>"Damn this is rough. . .I've got a kid myself." James said without thinking then immediately kicked himself. That was personal and he couldn't take it back now. He'd let something slip to this fucking fed who called him <i>that name</i> and showed up out of the blue all the time.</p><p>He'd really hate to have to kill some suit for his own ends. He'd left that behind him. Not as much guilt at night if he didn't kill for selfish reasons. Impersonal and practical, that was James Zimniy.</p><p>An unreadable mix of expressions passed over Steve's face. "You have a kid?" </p><p>"Not that she'll know me when she grows up." James sighed. </p><p>Steve frowned but he understood enough to let it go. </p><p>"So I'll let you keep that photo. If you see them, you have my number, and Clint's--- b-Barton's I mean!" Rogers stammered.</p><p>"Where is your partner anyway?"</p><p>"Asleep in the car." Steve admitted automatically then seemed to realize something. "Shoot uh. Speaking of him I need to. . ." Rogers stood and made for the door.</p><p>"These are mean streets, Rogers, be careful." James didn't know if he was giving him a friendly warning or a threat. And with that their brief visit was over.</p><p>Bucky immediately went for his drugs,  leaving the photo of the Castle kids on the coffee table. Staring up at him with their dead mother's eyes.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Holes riddled in your head, little bit of lead</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>James goes snooping around.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Graphic shit warnings still apply. Gratuitous drug use and all that, violence and what not. </p><p>Follow me on Instagram @BuckyBarnes8999 !</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Steve sat in Clint's car, looking over the files on his laptop. He was distracted, lazily clicking through photos, not really registering the images. He'd intended on, trying to see if he'd missed something in one of them. <br/>It'd be better if he could just <i>go</i> into the apartment--- the crime scene. But that was a call to his superiors he didn't want to make. And besides, he wasn't <i>really</i> focused was he?<br/> Clint snored lightly beside him, he hadn't had the heart to wake him. The man had a gaggle of kids and one heavily pregnant wife at home. He didn't get much sleep at home, Steve knew that. So it was no skin off his ass to let Clint nap while he let his mind wander. <br/> James Zimniy was strange, a hard one to pin down. He was obviously, painfully obviously on drugs. But that didn't explain his odd behavior. And just what the hell had happened to him? He'd looked like he'd gone three rounds with the lion at the zoo. <br/>And for all the world Steve was sure he knew him. He was <i>sure</i> James Zimniy was in fact James Barnes. No one else in the world had those iced-over sea blue eyes.  But, he had no clue how to brook the subject with the man. Especially since he'd already fucked it up with that abortion of a phone call. <br/>He had a habit of that, putting his impulses in front of his good sense. He'd been that way ever since. . . <br/>His fingers absently rolled the worn gold band on his left ring finger. <br/>Sighing heavily, he looked out the car window. From his vantage point in a smallish parking garage, he could see directly into James's fourth floor apartment window. It was the kitchen window and every now and again, he'd see a shadow flitting across the peeling wallpaper as James moved around. </p><p>What he didn't expect to see this time were James's intense eyes looking directly at him-- directly into his soul. Even from the distance, the look was pointed. It startled Steve, it made his blood run cold. <br/>He felt like he was being sized up by a predator. </p><p>The gaze held him like a spell until James broke eye contact and drew the curtains with a single rough tug. <br/>Steve stared at the spot James had vacated while shaking Clint awake. It still felt like eyes were boring into him. Steve had been in firefights, dangerous places full of dangerous people. He had been so deep undercover he'd forgotten the sound of his own name. But he'd never felt the way he'd felt locked in that cold stare.</p><p>"Hey, hey Clint. Shifts up. W-we can go." He croaked out. </p><p>Clint slowly came alive groaning and stretching as much as the confines of the car would allow. "Hnngh! Jesus, Steve, why'd you let me sleep so long." He gritted out as he stretched his spine. </p><p>"Sorry, Clint, you looked like you could use it." Steve offered him a tight lipped smile. For a moment he debated telling Clint about what just happened. About being--- caught? Looking into Zimniy's apartment. Had he been caught though? Is that what it was? It almost felt the other way around. </p><p>"Damn right I could use the rest but . . . This <i>car</i>! Department could have sprung for us a better option. Might as well ditch it and drive Laura's mini van in to work. Least then I could stretch my legs." Clint took a sip of his coffee and made a face. When had he bought it? That morning by the taste. </p><p>Clint's phone rang just as Steve was working up the nerve to discuss the incident with James and the window. </p><p>After a brief conversation with Laura, Clint cordially invited Steve to dinner again. Steve felt obligated to accept though it was half-heartedly. <br/>"Good maybe now she won't keep threatening to stove your head in with a skillet next time she sees you."</p><p>Clint started the car and pulled out of the space. <br/>Steve found himself drawn back to the window. He could have sworn he saw movement there just before they rounded the corner. </p><p>__________________________</p><p>James was just behind the curtain. His whole body was shaking. Something about this agent Rogers tore him to his core. He'd dealt with fucking feds before, feds who were actively pursuing him as a criminal. James was smart when he wasn't on the shit. He could divert, mislead and find alibis for days. Hell, he could disappear if he wanted to, vanish without a trace.<br/> Rogers was different, something in his eyes. Something in the way he seemed to step on eggshells around him for all the wrong reasons. The thing is, James didn't think that Rogers thought of him as a criminal. Then what? <br/>He'd been back stateside for going on five years now and no one had recognized him yet. He'd wandered through his old neighborhood and everything. No one placed this dead eyed man with the wide eyed kid he'd been when he. . . Left.<br/>Why now? And if James was important enough for Rogers to remember, why didn't he remember Rogers? <br/>No, something didn't add up. Something had to be going on and James would get to the bottom of it. And sure, James was a paranoid bastard but there'd been many times when that paid off. </p><p>He was a ball of nervous energy. Two days was a hell of a long time to wait for the file. He knew damn well Piotr could have it sooner. Him and his goddamned lessons. In spite of being a man of position within The Bratva, Piotr wanted people around him to be <i>good</i> outside business. Business was, after all, business. <br/>He'd tried drawing the goodness out of James once or twice and nearly succeeded. </p><p>The truth was, with James good and bad weren't so simple. James hated his existence, he was angry at a cellular level and if he didn't release it it threatened to burn him to a cinder. But he could hide everything else, hide it under layers and layers of ice so thick one could build skyscrapers upon it. </p><p>That's why they'd changed his name. Why they'd given him the new moniker. "Zimniy" . . . Winter. When he'd gone to Russia so young and angry with fire in his soul and ice in his heart. He made the winter his own. <br/>He didn't cry or beg for anything. He was silent if he was beaten, didn't make a peep if he was tortured. </p><p>Nothing melted the permafrost of James's heart. Nothing until <i>her</i>. Tania. <br/>She had no business being being anywhere near the Bratva. She was smart and <i>good</i> if such things as goodness really matter. But hers mattered to James.<br/>But why James mattered to her was beyond him. Maybe that's why things ended up the way they had. Because he couldn't see past what they'd made him.</p><p>His hand slid along his metal limb, up to his shoulder. He traced the star emblazoned there. "Звезда свет." He murmured out loud, starlight, that's what he called her and he was her Звезда, her star. <br/>His stomach churned, coiling in knots. Piotr had called him that when he was. . .<br/>A chill broke over James's body. He'd debased himself. He'd <i>sold</i>himself for information on Rogers and goddamn him. It made a little ember of hatred start to catch light for the man. </p><p>But it was James's choice in the end right? Maybe the hatred was for himself just thinly veiled under the guise of it being for Rogers. These things were too complex for James when he hadn't had his fix yet that day. And fuck but the lack of drugs slamming through his veins was getting to him. He craved numbness. He'd needed to be numb ever since Tania died. No, no she didn't just die, she was <i>executed</i>. She'd smiled at James's cold face as they shot her. She knew, he knew she knew that he was dying right there with her, even if he couldn't show it. Sashenka had been two months old then. <br/>He'd tried so hard for a while. He tried taking care of her, his daughter. But he couldn't he just couldn't. His work never ended and what good was a bloodsoaked father? Would he have brought her up cold and dead inside as he was? Would he have made her into another resentful monster to plague the world?</p><p>The Bratva weaponized his love. They held her over his head until one day he dropped her off with a social worker and didn't look back.<br/> She was three and she had loved him. She screamed for him, begged him to stay. He closed his heart and opened his veins to the never ending parade of drugs.</p><p>He vowed never to love anyone again and, with equal conviction he vowed to never <i>let</i> anyone love him either.</p><p>Tony found her after he'd bought him out. The man had a boundless curiosity, and if James was being honest Tony wasn't cut out for a life in organized crime. There was a goodness in Tony too. Though he knew Tony didn't see it in himself. </p><p>James needed his drugs. He stood, pushing the kitchen chair back, but his knees gave out from under him. He didn't get two feet and he was on the floor, wretching his guts out. All that came up was the bitter remnants of the coffee he'd had earlier. </p><p>Why was his mind doing all this now?! Why would his body not cooperate?! </p><p>No matter, where flesh was fallible, his metal arm was not. He dragged himself to the coffee table and just lay there, reaching for things, prepping his needle. He took a screwdriver to the maintenance plate in his arm and slid it open. It grated more than it used to, it sounded rusty though there was no evidence of it being such. Not to his eye anyway. </p><p>Sometimes he thought of getting rid of this appendage somehow. It was the result of his captivity. The wages of a war he was forced into. but no, he'd keep it, it got him out of more scrapes than he'd ever care to admit.</p><p>Just as he slipped the needle into the valve his phone started to vibrate behind him. He was so, so tempted to just depress the plunger and drift off. </p><p>"Goddamn it!" He growled and tossed the syringe down to grab his phone. </p><p>Tony's name flashed on the screen and he groaned from the pit of his soul before answering. <br/>"Yes, sir?" He grated out into the device.</p><p>"Drifting off into a drug induced stupor yet or are you still on my dime like you should be?" Tony said sharply. "Since you answered my call I suppose you're still with me. Sloppy job on the mission today by the way. I really got a treasure when I got you."</p><p>James pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "Sorry boss. I'll do better next time." The apology was hollow and he heard Tony snort on the other end.</p><p>"Next time is right now. Happy is pulling up to your place. This one's sensitive, you won't need the gun, bring your knives and whatever else. And next time don't leave your gross shit in my car, Zimniy." The line went dead. </p><p>Jesus Christ. </p><p>James looked longingly at the full syringe. He needed it on a cellular level. But it'd have to wait. He had to pull himself together. He knew he could never afford to fall apart. </p><p>Thus he did another line of coke and retrieved his knives from their little hiding place behind a tile in the bathroom. </p><p>He flipped through the file once he was sitting in the car, being driven to the location. <br/>Another young man. Too young to be into what he was into-- but then again So had James been. Apparently he'd stolen from Tony. A large sum of money was involved and it all started to run together for James. He didn't care. He just wanted to so his job and get it over with.<br/>Tony wanted this kid made an example of. He wanted it bloody and slow and <i>personal</i>. James didn't do personal, but he could make it look that way. </p><p>He twirled one of his knives absently in his metal hand. Letting the repetitive motion soothe him. </p><p>Happy let him out at a slummy apartment building in worse shape than James's own. The driver had refused his request to be let out a distance from the place, stating that stealth wasn't priority. </p><p>Maybe not for Tony. </p><p>James hiked his hood up over his head, and it helped that he looked just like any other strung out vagrant in the oversized hoodie. There were people everywhere. Even at this time of night there were people talking in doorways, laying on stoops. <br/>James entered the building and made his way up to the top floor. He paused once looking down at a junkie laying passed out in the hall, cigarette burning between her lips. He used the toe of his boot to flick the cigarette out of her mouth and crushed it with his heel. </p><p>The mark's apartment was 8 B it was easy to find. He considered knocking, trying the easy way but he dismissed that thought. Nothing was ever easy.</p><p>He fished his lockpicks out of his pocket and got to work. The best thing about shitty New York apartments was that the Supers often bought everything as cheap as possible. This lock was no different. Any kindergartner with a bobby pin and some determination could have picked it.</p><p>With a click the door swung open. Didn't even have the chain on? Asking for trouble, friend.<br/> He relocked the door behind himself this time slotting the chain on properly.<br/> The apartment was dark save for the light from a ten gallon fish tank in one corner. It was more than enough light for James to pick his way through. </p><p>The place was remarkably clean considering the surroundings. James wasn't sure if it were due to good habits or drug habits.  </p><p>Drug habits based on the subtle, nearly undetectable scent of Meth being smoked. Most people claimed meth didn't have a smell, James begged to differ. It smelt subtle and sweet but also acrid. </p><p>So the mark wasn't asleep. </p><p>He moved deeper into the apartment. He lingered looking over personal effects, photos on the wall, decor, shoes by the door. He opened the fridge and looked at everything inside. A sparse mix of expensive beer and health food.<br/>He sighed and went deeper, pushing doors open with his metal hand.  </p><p>He found the young man huddled on a well made bed holding the little glass pipe to his lips. He jumped, met James's eyes with his own glassy ones. Shock at James materializing out of the dark hallway kept him rooted to the spot. <br/>James paused to turn on a lamp, the bulb was dim and it only washed shadows over the room in new and terrifying ways. It made James's icy eyes stand out almost like they had a light of their own. He moved with a predatory grace. He sized him up.  The mark was a wall of muscle in spite of his drug use, his hair was close cropped, kempt not just buzzed for convenience. He wore a decent brand of clothing. <br/>The clean state of the place was out of good habits then. He probably brushed his teeth and said his prayers every night like a good boy too.</p><p>"W-who?" The mark croaked when he found his voice.</p><p>"Shh. Shh." James hushed, his knee tucking into the mattress. <br/>He slid behind the mark, ignoring the fearful squeak from the man. His hands closed on both the man's wrists, he also ignored the way the man recoiled from his metal touch. He slid his hands down the man's wrists until he was practically holding his hands. He slipped the pipe and the small kitchen torch away from him.<br/>He held the man to his chest while he put the pipe to his own lips. He clicked the torch to life and turned the pipe back and forth above the blue flame, he watched the crystals melt into water-clear liquid. He put it to his lips and inhaled the misty vapor. Goddamn, it was good pure meth. He could tell this was a dealer's stash, not yet cut with anything impure. </p><p>He next pushed the pipe to the mark's lips, held the torch to it. The man was trembling with fear, there wrapped in James's arms. In a stranger's arms. <br/>He did the drugs anyway, maybe need won out over his fear. </p><p>James reached down to grab another shard of meth from a fat baggie of it sitting between the mark's legs. The man flinched. </p><p>James hushed him again and dropped the meth into the pipe. He brought it back to his lips. This time when he exhaled it was practically against the man's neck. "What's your name?" </p><p>James asked softly, too softly for the cold feeling in his heart. He knew the man's name, Tony provided that. But he wanted him to relax before the action started. He knew the best way to make a person relax was with gentle personal questions.</p><p>"Eh-- Ethan." Ethan breathed. He was still scared but James noticed his muscles unwinding against his chest.</p><p>"Who are you?" He croaked out, getting brave. </p><p>"Not important." James put the pipe down and slid his hands over Ethan's shoulders and over his chest. "Just know I'm here for you." Oh how many things that could mean. </p><p>James was smirking as he nested his face against Ethan's neck and <i>licked</i>. <br/>The mark was sweaty, his sweat tinged with the taste of the chemicals his body filtered out, the remnants of his drug habit. </p><p>The attention actually drew a sound from the man, sharp and startled. <br/>"I don't uh-understand." The man, Ethan shifted around, squirming. <br/>"Someone sent me here, for you." James nipped his ear and he moaned, reedy and slightly startled. "Shh, shh." James cooed again. </p><p>His hand, the metal one, slid along Ethan's thigh. The flesh trembled under his palm.</p><p>When he cupped between Ethan's legs the man keened, raising his hips. How receptive to a stranger breaking into his house. He briefly allowed the man to rut against his palm, grinding into the unrelenting surface of it. <br/>When James had had enough of it he gripped him and squeezed <i>hard</i>.</p><p>The man choked on his scream, the sound catching in his throat. </p><p>"Any idea who sent me for you?" James's voice was still cool silk even as he adjusted his grip so that Ethan's balls were hopelessly trapped in metal. </p><p>Ethan just made more pitiful sounds, too many pained noises crowding his throat to form a coherent reply.</p><p>James squeezed again. "Answer." He demanded. </p><p>"Please." Was the only word Ethan gritted out.</p><p>"Already begging? I thought you were going to surprise me." James let his balls go in favor of unsheathing one if his knives. A small wicked one with a thin blade. <br/>He made sure he passed it in front of Ethan's eyes so he could see it before pressing it to his throat. <br/>"Can you answer better now?" </p><p>Ethan swallowed, the action caused a small line of red to slide down his neck. <br/>"St-stark?" </p><p>"That's right." James cut into his flesh and didn't stop.<br/>-------</p><p>James fed the fish before he left, took the fat bag of meth, a bottled juice from the fridge. <br/>When he was back in the car he assessed himself. He was covered in blood that was always a given. He was shaking and that was new. He chalked it up to the lack of heroin. The addition of crystal meth. He had little bits of flesh between the plates of his metal fingers. </p><p>"I need a vacation." He joked to Happy who didn't respond. </p><p>He was sorely tempted to leave his bloodied clothes in the car just to spite Tony. Just because he'd made a point of mentioning his having left his gear in here. Just because he'd said it was gross.<br/>He settled on his graciously printless bloody left hand tracking over expensive leather seats. </p><p>He sipped the juice as he sat in the plush and ruined back seat. "I have somewhere else to be?" James asked at last, noting that they weren't going toward his apartment. <br/>Happy looked over his shoulder. </p><p>"I uh. I'm going on higher orders than Tony's." Happy muttered. James sometimes wondered why the man's name fit him so poorly.</p><p>"Who in hell is higher up than Tony?" James scoffed. </p><p>"His wife." </p><p>James nearly choked. "What's she want with me?" <br/>The woman was scary in a way Tony never managed to be. She was an actual authority. </p><p>"One more target tonight." Happy reached to hand him a small envelope. This one was the exact thing James was used to<br/> A face and a location. </p><p>"Alright." James sighed studying the face of the woman who looked up from the photo at him. <br/>He fished a little shard of meth out of the bag and crushed it on his metal palm. He snorted it in one quick motion, face coming away smeared with blood.</p><p>This mark was easy. Position himself in the building opposite and take the shot. He wished he worked for Pepper more often. </p><p>When he was actually heading home he let himself relax, almost dozing in the car.</p><p>"Thanks Happy." He said as he got out, taking the duffel he'd left in there earlier.</p><p>"Hey!" Happy called to him, rolling down his window. "Here, from Pepper." Happy held a parcel out the window at him and shook it indicating for him to take it.</p><p>He didn't open it until he was back in the safety of his apartment. Inside were a few baggies of coke, a fat stack of cash and a disc in a thin jewel case. </p><p>He'd received one of these discs before. They weren't like the VHS tapes Tony produced for him. They were mostly photos and clips. He'd have to use his laptop for it but he knew what it held. </p><p>He slipped the disc into the safe along with his gear. He couldn't watch that tonight, he couldn't put himself through it. Not with everything else going on. </p><p>Once the Heroin was coursing through his veins it was a moment of sweet oblivion. He injected enough that the drying and flaking blood covering him didn't matter, the gross sticky feeling of his metal arm moving with it between his plates didn't bother him. He did enough that he didn't wake up until three pm the next day. </p><p>His back was sore, ached fiercely and his mouth felt and tasted like he'd chewed a sock all night. He groaned as he sat up, bones audibly clicking back into place. He cursed under his breath in Russian as he forced himself to stand.<br/>He'd blacked out with his arm wide open again. Bad habits. </p><p>He snapped it closed and looked down at himself. He was still sticky with dried and drying blood. His left hand made a slight crunching sound when he flexed it, little bits of nearly black dried blood rained down onto the floor. </p><p>With another heavy groan he dragged himself to the shower. </p><p>He stripped down naked and stood assessing himself in the mirror. He needed a shave, and a haircut too if he was being honest. He was losing body fat maybe even some muscle if the slight size difference between his metal and flesh arms were any indication. </p><p>Instead of turning the shower on he drew a practically boiling hot bath. </p><p>He yelped when he lowered himself into it. His asshole stung like a bitch when it met the water. Piotr had done more damage than James realized. But the pain was sobering, it woke him fully.</p><p>He washed himself diligently first with a rag then a rough brush. It was only usually meant for his arm but he found it was excellent at getting blood off stubborn places. <br/>The bathwater was brackish red when he drained the tub. The room smelled a little like iron and it all warranted another quick rinse to get it off his skin. </p><p>When he sat in a towel on the couch he checked his phone. No missed calls, no messages.</p><p>Relieving. </p><p>He sat and stared at nothing for a while, just letting his brain unwind from the events of last night. Sure the heroin helped but killing was a lot to decompress. </p><p>He could shoot up again. He could blank all the emotions trying to unknot themselves. He could but there was a curiosity bubbling in him.</p><p>It began when his eyes passed over the photo of the Castle kids, still staring up from his coffee table.</p><p>Without a sound he slipped into a pair of basketball shorts and got his lockpicks. </p><p>The locks in this building were good, James had checked before moving in here. </p><p>As he knelt down on the welcome mat he looked at the lock. It had the normal wear and tear of keys being fumbled into it for years but. . . He looked harder and noted a few odd notches in the metal. Someone had picked the lock before. And they were good but not as good as James. </p><p>Curious.</p><p>He picked it himself and pushed the door open. <br/>There was the unmistakable scent of death in the place. It didn't make sense if the agents had the timeline correct. She shouldn't have started to decomp that bad in two days. Not bad enough for the old-fish-and-licorice stench to linger. </p><p>He put that kind of decomp at a week at least. Without the A/C on. <br/>But did that add up? He'd talked to her in the hall. How long ago had it been? <br/>He cursed himself for letting the drugs take his sense of time away. </p><p>He looked around the apartment, being careful to not disturb anything. He carefully only touched things with his left hand. </p><p>There were things moved around from how he remembered. The TV was a foot to the left of where it had been. The dust indicating the change had been wiped away. But the indention of a small key hadn't been scoured from existence. The old tube TV's weight pressing the shape into the cheap pressboard stand for eternity.</p><p>He took note of it's shape. It wasn't a door key. Too small. It looked similar to the key to his own gun case.</p><p>"Hmm." He said out loud and moved on. <br/>The couch cushions were rearranged. But that could have been anything, nothing expressly suspicious.  The edges of a stain he'd made himself, upturning a coca cola during a fit of mutual laughter, was on the end cushion instead of the middle. </p><p> He lifted it up and noted the lining had been torn underneath, exposing springs and stuffing. He peered in and discovered a hollowed out section where something had been. About the size of a gun case if his guess was right. <br/>He wondered if the cops knew any of this. Probably not, probably just gave the place a perfunctory once over and left with their suicide verdict. </p><p>He left the living room and wandered to the bedroom. He'd only been in the room once before, and he didn't like remembering that fiasco of a night. She'd just wanted someone to cry on, but his walls went up faster than lightning and he ran. That was when he ended their little farce of a friendship. <br/>He could tell this was the room it happened in. There was a chunk of plaster missing from the wall and the cleaners had done a shit job. He could see the outline of her body made in old blood and other bodily fluids associated with decomposition. He could clearly make out how she was positioned. <br/>He reached out and traced the blotchy edge of what would have been her head. When he squatted down to line up the bullet trajectory he noted discrepancies.  If she'd have shot herself in the head like the stain indicated the bullet would have either gone upward through her skull or straight through into the wall. This shot was at an angle. Unless she stretched her arm to shoot herself in the upper right side of the crown of her head--- Mrs Castle didn't kill herself. Mrs Castle had been executed. She'd been on her knees. </p><p>James cried out as this scene sent his brain into a vivid flashback of Tania looking up at him while his associate put the gun to her head in a similar spot. He fell backwards as the hardwood floors turned to bloodied snow before his eyes. <br/>He scrambled to get out of that goddamn apartment.</p><p>In his haste he ran headlong into the stone-sturdy chest of Agent Rogers, just unlocking the door. </p><p>Not this, he didn't need this. He yelped, taking a half leap back. "What the hell!" He exclaimed.</p><p>Rogers's eyes narrowed. "Could ask you the same. Why are you trespassing on my crime scene? I could take you in for this." </p><p>"I thought I could help." James replied, schooling himself into nonchalance. </p><p>"You can help just by being cooperative with me. Us. With us, agent Barton and I." Rogers stammered. </p><p>James ignored the way Rogers's eyes raked over him. Well, he was admittedly scantily clad in naught but his loose fitting basketball shorts. He didn't even have shoes on.</p><p>"Then tell me the details you know about the case." James shot. "Like why you said it was a suicide and not an execution." </p><p>Rogers's eyes locked on James's. "How do you know that?" He asked, shocked at the revelation on James's part. </p><p>"Bullet trajectory." James stated in reply. "Stance. Everything about it screams execution."</p><p>Maybe James was revealing too much about himself by showing his hand like this. Showing how much he knew about what death in all its forms looks like. <br/>Steve is stunned to silence. </p><p>"D-do you wanna help me look over some crime scene photos?" He asks with a leaden tongue. </p><p>"If I don't you'll never figure it out." James sighs. The look he gives Steve makes the man's heart nearly stop. He knows that look on a much younger face and it takes the life of him to not say something. To not reach out to him.<br/>"But I have work soon." James lies, not wanting this dangerous stranger any more comfortable with him than he was. "Bring me copies. Slide them under the door. I'll make notes and you can pick them up. In the morning." </p><p>Steve had the beginnings of a smile on his face but now it faded away to his neutral "federal agent expression". <br/>"Right. I. . . I'll do that. . . Thanks I suppose." He says and James almost let's himself feel a bit sorry for the man. This guy was like a kicked puppy, a perpetually kicked puppy at that. </p><p>Not that James made a habit of kicking puppies. He'd killed a man for that once as a teen. <br/>Steeling himself he lets himself mutter a terse "happy to help." Before pushing past Steve and going to his own apartment. </p><p>He makes a show of leaving though he has no real reason to. No work, no place to go. But he could feel eyes on him, real or imaginary. He dresses nice. Nicer than he normally would on a regular day. A button down a deep red like old blood, that stretched obscenely tight over his shoulders and charcoal slacks that hugged all the right places. He tied his hair back and had a quick shave. He looked good, still a little unhealthy looking around the eyes but good.</p><p>He didn't know where his feet were taking him when he left the building. But he did notice the tiny black car parked around the corner. <br/>That meant they were at least watching the building. He groaned to himself, knowing he'd have to stay gone for what would seem like a normal shift at work. </p><p>Maybe it was better this way though. Maybe it was better that he wasn't around temptations like a fat bag of meth and a needle full of heroin. He wasn't around a disc full of clips and photos of a daughter he had no real claim to.</p><p>He wandered around the city for a while, not really caring where he went, if it were dangerous or whose turf it was. James had this rare ability to navigate himself through the world with anonymity if he chose. He chose to do that more and more these days. </p><p>He was avoiding a small gang of liegeless street thugs when his phone rang.</p><p>"Nat." He greeted as he answered </p><p>"James." Came the reply from the other end. Her voice was cold as usual tinged with her usual hint of curiosity. "This file is wild. When can I drop it off?" </p><p>James stopped walking. It was early. "You're already done with it? Piotr said two days and it's only been maybe a day."</p><p>"What can I say? I work fast and efficient. So when can I drop it off?" There was a suspicion eagerness in her voice.</p><p>"You're just wanting to be nosy."</p><p>"I'm offended. I already know every single thing remember?" <br/>James slightly envied her accent. She was a born and bred Russian and her American accent was better than his. <br/>James laughed a bit.<br/>"I can meet you. Do you still drink coffee or have you went on blood full time?" James snarked.</p><p>"Ha. Ha. Zimniy. Of course I drink coffee. If you're lucky." He could hear Nat packing her bag as they spoke. "Name the place and I'll meet you." </p><p>"I'll text it to you. I don't really know where I am." He laughed a little into the phone. It was weird that after everything this woman he was speaking to . . . He'd count her as a real friend. They'd met as teens in rival gangs back in Russia. She proved her worth and was recruited by the family James worked for shortly after. She'd beaten his ass more than once. She'd do it again given the opportunity too.</p><p>"Okay James, text me." She hung up without further ado.</p><p>Upon pulling up his phone's GPS he was pleased to find he was actually very close to a coffee shop with a 4.5 star rating. <br/>He texted Nat the address and turned his feet in that direction. </p><p>He'd soon have Rogers's file in his hands and answers, wether they'd comfort or torment him was left to be seen but he wanted it just the same. </p><p>------</p><p>Nat dropped the file down in front of him, narrowly avoiding the pile of assorted pastries he'd bought but not yet touched. </p><p>"Hey hotshot. You can thank me by buying me coffee." Nat said as she slid into the chair across from James. He handed her a crumpled 20$ bill and she huffed indignantly but, went to get her own coffee anyway. </p><p>James flipped open the file and the first photo he came to made his blood run cold.</p><p>He didn't realize he was on his feet until Nat was easing him back into his chair.</p><p>"Shh, James it's okay. Успокойся." <br/>She whispered into his ear.</p><p>Had he shouted? It seems like he had, the way the other patrons of the coffee shop looked at him. "That can't be him." He stated dumbly. His eyes came to rest on the photo again. "I've got to go, Nat." </p><p>He tried standing but she pushed him back down. "You're gonna calm down before you do a damn thing, Zimniy." Her brows were knit and she searched his eyes. <br/>"Drink your coffee." She stated and sat back down with her own cup in hand. </p><p>James nodded and sat with his eyes closed and his head back for a long while. "I do know him." He stated to himself. </p><p>"Yeah? Ghosts of the distant past?" </p><p>"Something like that." James replied finally picking up one of the pastries. He didn't exactly eat it so much as tear it into little bits with his fingers. </p><p>"Wanna talk about it?" She asked tentatively.</p><p>James regarded her now, her slight and seductively curvy build, fiery red hair. She was gorgeous as she was deadly but there was also a goodness in her too. She cared about people. She cared about her friends fiercely. James was actually glad to be counted amongst the small number of her friends.  Even if they <i>are</i> on separate teams again.<br/>"Nat. If I cook for you will you pull another file for me?" </p><p>She almost chokes on her coffee. "Like cook for real at your new place?" Only new because she's never seen it. It's been three years.<br/>He nods and sips his own sugary concoction. </p><p>She smiles now and it meets her eyes at last. "Finally trying to seduce me?"</p><p>James laughs at that, it's genuine too and he starts to relax. It's easy to forget in the swirl of death and drugs and killing and running--- that there are good things in life too. Things that make a person feel <i>good</i> and not just numb.<br/> Hard to separate numbness with ease, hard to differentiate it from goodness.</p><p>"Might be. But don't Black Widows eat their mates?" He jokes back with her.</p><p>"Somehow I think you'd like it if I did." She's still smiling, eyes laughing openly. <br/>"So what's the name?" She asks acquiescing to the request. </p><p>"Maria E. Castle." He states, knowing the file Steve is giving him won't be near enough. "If you can pull anything on her husband I'd appreciate it too." </p><p>Nat stands and kisses the top of James's head. "You better not try to cop out and cook some boxed spaghetti or some shit. I want to taste the Motherland, Zimniy." She spoke into his hair before leaving the shop.</p><p>James was left alone with the folder containing a chunk of his past he figured dead and buried. No wonder he didn't recognize Stevie Rogers. <br/>Fuck, even saying the name in his head made him hurt down to his soul. <br/>Now that he knew, knew who he was, remembered him fondly even. . . He didn't know if he could look him in the eye.</p><p>He spent the next four hours at the shop pouring over every detail of the file. He was sad to learn of Stevie's mother's passing. She had been a good woman.</p><p>Sometimes in the dark of the night when things were really bad at home-- he imagined Sarah Rogers was <i>his</i> mom, not Winnie Barnes. He'd imagine her tucking him in at night and telling him she loved him and --- James stared down at the drop of wetness that suddenly marred one of the pages he was staring at. Where had it come from? <br/>He realized it was from him, he was crying. He frantically wiped at his face with his sleeve. Jesus Christ on a crutch. Pull yourself together Bar--- Zimniy. Pull yourself together Zimniy. </p><p>Drugs. He needed drugs. </p><p>He needed alcohol</p><p>He needed anything but this feeling.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Shake it all out, light a cigarette</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Follow me on Tumblr! <a href="https://ibuckybarnes.tumblr.com/"> Here! </a></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Steve was hesitant to knock on James's door.<br/>
But he'd slipped those files under the door-- as instructed-- last night and he honestly wanted to see the man's take on them. The things James had noticed seemingly untrained was astounding. Perhaps it was all a little dangerous for the future of his career but. . .</p><p> What he didn't know was that James had walked right over the files and directly into his disused bedroom last night, clutching an entirely different kind of file.</p><p>Steve's knuckles lightly rapped on the door. Was James even home?<br/>
Screwing up his confidence, he knocked a little harder. His eyebrows raised toward his hairline when the door swung open on it's hinges.<br/>
It wasn't that Steve was trying to pry but. . . It was kind of in his job description.<br/>
Besides someone as seemingly jumpy and borderline paranoid as James came off would never leave their door half open.</p><p>A little twinge of fear knotted in Steve's gut. Had whoever killed Mrs Castle gotten to James too?</p><p>He pushed the door open a little bit further. The curtains and blinds were drawn, shrouding the apartment in darkness. The hall light carved out a sliver of visible surroundings. Steve's heart leapt again when he saw the file--- it was scattered over the floor. All the photos and notes strewn haphazardly.</p><p>He didn't realize his feet were moving until he was standing in the middle of James's living room.<br/>
His eyes scanned everything, he frowned at the sheer amount of drugs and paraphernalia scattered over the coffee table. The TV was on but the old contraption was paused on a black screen. Who the hell even used VHS anymore? Steve absently turned the VCR off so the tape wouldn't stretch. </p><p>The chair from the desk was overturned. Steve put his hand into his jacket as he stepped around it and into the bedroom. It was just as dark as the rest of the apartment had been. It smelled musty but that was no surprise if the blanket draped over the back of the couch was any indication of where James usually slept---- or passed out seemed more likely given the state of the coffee table. The thought made Steve's nose wrinkle in distaste. </p><p>Moving deeper into the dark bedroom, Steve noted no one occupied the knotted sheets. His eyes slowly adjusted to the near darkness and Steve could make out the sparse personal items the room contained. Photo of a baby in a cheap frame, dress shoes and a little pot of shoe polish. There were a few books stacked on a dusty dresser. The titles on their spines were in Russian.</p><p>Something crunched under Steve's shoe. He looked down and now noticed shards of broken discs littered the floor as did a few half burnt scraps of paper. Some were photographs but they were blistered and charred past recognition.<br/>
Old syringes peppered the whole mess as did a few beer bottles.</p><p>Steve picked through the mess carefully now. He side stepped all the debris of the other man's life. He could no longer tell if the mess was suspicious or just part of a whirlwind of chaos he knew nothing of.</p><p>Either way a dim flicker of light caught his attention. It came from under the bathroom door then it was gone.<br/>
"James?" He called out, waited, got no answer.<br/>
Biting his lower lip he went to the door and knocked softly. Again there was no reply. </p><p>As soon as the Bathroom door swung inward, James's hand was on his piece. He had been seconds from shooting up, the needle poised to Pierce into the valve in his arm. His headphones were in his ears blasting music loud enough that he felt it in his throat. He cursed himself now as the door swung open. The shadowy figure there had no chance to carry out whatever  order they were there on. James's aim was true as ever he shot the assailant directly in the heart. </p><p>In the flash of the shot he immediately realized his mistake. His eyes widened as Agent Rogers's shocked face was illuminated. Steve staggered in place a moment, hand coming up to his chest, a stricken look plastered to his face.</p><p>"Oh fuck!" James exclaimed as the large frame of the agent collapsed onto the floor, backward. </p><p>James tossed his gun down and threw the syringe into the sink. </p><p>"Oh no, oh <i>no</i>!" James rushed to Steve. "What are you doing here you idiot?!" </p><p>His heart was pounding in his chest as he crouched over Steve's prone form. He was crumpled half in the bathroom and half in the cluttered bedroom. </p><p>"Steve, Steve speak to me." James wasn't entirely sure he was speaking English anymore.  He was at a loss as to what he should do.<br/>
He ripped his headphones out and slammed his left hand into the light switch. Nothing happened and he cursed under his breath. With a grunt of effort he shifted around, crawling over Steve's body. It wasn't an easy climb as he had to practically crawl over the dresser to get behind Steve.<br/>
With a grunt of effort James dragged Steve into the bed--- just a mattress and box spring on the floor---.<br/>
"C'mon don't be dead, don't be dead." James pleaded out loud as he moved. </p><p>James was however a very good shot. How unfortunate for Steve. </p><p>James's hands were sticky with blood and for once it really bothered him. He left a bloody handprint on the bedside lamp as he turned it on. </p><p>Finally able to see, he ripped Steve's jacket off and did the same to the dark button down he wore.<br/>
"Oh you lucky goddamn bastard." James practically sobbed out as he bared Steve's bullet proof vest. The armor was scarred directly over Steve's heart.<br/>
James' fingers slid over the rough edged indentation. His bloody fingers.<br/>
Where. . . ? </p><p>He undid the buckles and straps that held the vest on Steve's body. No, the bullet hadn't penetrated. There was a huge, livid bruise forming though.<br/>
James's eyes roved for a moment over Steve's bare chest, almost dazed.<br/>
He shook himself, he had to find the source of the blood, no time to assess anything else. </p><p>He rolled Steve over and sure enough, the back of the man's hair was matted down with blood. Fucking dresser. He must have cracked his head on it when he fell. It would explain the unconsciousness.  </p><p>Luckily it wasn't bleeding so bad now, just sluggishly oozing. James got up and wet a cloth in the sink, returning to dab at the wound. It wasn't a bad cut though, about an inch long and not deep. Fucking head wounds. </p><p>"Stupid little shit, why'd you just barge in?"  He muttered under his breath. "Don't you know? Isn't there some scent on my skin that says I'm dangerous?" </p><p>Steve groaned when James applied full pressure to the wound. He shifted slightly, his arm wrestling itself out of the sleeves of both his shirt and jacket. </p><p>"Awake, Steve?" James asked softly as the rag was taken from him, Steve's hand replacing his own. </p><p>Steve jolted, tried to sit up too quickly and ended up groaning and letting himself fall back into the bed. "Urhg. James? You. . . You shot me." He grated out. </p><p>"I thought you were coming to kill me." James admitted. "Like Maria." He added for good measure. </p><p>Steve sighed, deflating a little, relaxing. </p><p>James's heart was still racing-- almost like he'd done a hit of speed. "I'm sorry, Steve." </p><p>Steve turned a little bit, shifting his body. His eyes widened and he dropped his gaze quickly, cheeks growing scarlet.<br/>
James was entirely naked, not a stitch was on his body. "I guess I didn't--" Steve swallowed thickly. "I thought that-- I thought you were hurt or something." </p><p>When James made no move to cover up, Steve let his eyes slide back up to the man's face. "Oh--- oh James, don't cry!"</p><p> </p><p>"I'm not. . ." James insisted. But he was, he was crying, his face held no emotion, no expression other than the usual deadpan. But his eyes swam with tears that spilled down his cheeks in rapid succession. </p><p>"Yeah. You are. Are you okay?" Steve's brows knit together, he reached out and thumbed under James's eye. He felt James tense, coil under his hand. The expression that flickered over the man's features for a split second told Steve that that small touch practically made James want to crawl from his own body. </p><p>Steve freezes with his hand cupping James's cheek. They sit like that for a long moment.<br/>
"You called me Steve. D-do you remember me?" Steve whispered breaking the fragile silence.</p><p>"No." James rasps, the lie a heavy weight pressing on his soul. "No I don't remember you." Why did Steve care so much? They had been little kids the last time they'd laid eyes on one another. Granted. . . Granted he was Steve's only friend. He stood up for the frail little guy. God, Stevie Rogers had been a fighter. He never stood for any injustice he saw, no girls got their braids tugged, no candy was stolen, no book bags dumped out when Stevie was around--- usually at the price of him getting his ass kicked. Stupid kid. Stupid little boy, he'd been so sick and delicate.</p><p>"Liar." Steve's voice brought him crashing back to reality and out of his thoughts. </p><p>"W-what?" James stuttered. </p><p>"You do remember me." Steve let James's face go and struggled into a seated position. "What happened, James? What happened that it'd be so bad to acknowledge me?" </p><p>James's gaze snapped to Steve's and held it. "I'm. . . I'm not a good person anymore." Saying the words, the admission of his memories without directly voicing them felt like swallowing glass. Words crowded his throat, swirled in his head.<br/>
He felt dizzy, he couldn't draw a breath. </p><p><i>Goodness</i> there was that notion again. An ideal so far removed from James's life that he felt like he tainted everything he came in contact with. Like everything he touched was marked with his wrongness the same way he trailed blood over Tony Stark's back seat.<br/>
His flesh arm reached out and grabbed onto Steve's muscular bicep. "Steve I can't. . . I can't breathe!" He gasped out. His hand shook violently as it held onto Steve's arm. </p><p>"James! It's okay!" Steve tugged him just as he was about to fall backward off the bed. The momentum propelled James directly into Steve's arms. "It's okay, James, breathe with me okay? Breathe in and count with me. Okay? One. Two. Three. Four. Five."<br/>
James struggled to do as Steve said, he trembled like a leaf the whole time.<br/>
"Good. Now breathe out, keep counting. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. And again, breathe in. . ."</p><p>He breathed with Steve for several minutes until he was breathing normally, his heart rate settling down. His thoughts calmed too, and he was able to finally unclench all his muscles. "Thank you." He states tensely when he feels more like himself. He wants to jolt out of those strong arms, he wants to bat away the hand that's firmly rubbing up and down his spine but he doesn't. He lays there half across Steve's lap and lets him rub into his skin.<br/>
"What did you mean, you're not a good person? Is it the drugs? Because I don't think drugs make you a bad person." Steve tries after a long moment.</p><p>James scoffs. "Alright Saint Max." He murmurs against Steve's skin. </p><p>"Is it. . . Are you a. . ?" Steve can't seem to get his mouth around his thoughts. Eventually his fingers rest on one of the tender and swollen marks Piotr had left on his neck. "Are you a prostitute?" </p><p>James jolts entirely out of Steve's arms but somehow remains on the bed. </p><p>"I'm sorry, I didn't---"</p><p>"Yeah, I'm a whore, just like my mom!" James spat, voice dripping venom. "That why you're hanging around? Think I give freebies to cops who come snooping?" His hand roughly cupped Steve through his slacks.<br/>
Steve yelped and inched backward but James moved with him. "Is that it? Trying to get a piece of my ass?"<br/>
His hand worked over Steve roughly, he didn't try to feel it, he didn't try to assess the size, the girth, anything. He did however feel it swelling with blood beneath his palm. </p><p>His hand was suddenly trapped in Steve's thighs. "Oh God, stop, Bucky." Steve gasped out, breathing shakily. "Stop." </p><p>James snarled and pulled his hand away, leaving Steve half hard in his pants and shaking. </p><p>"Don't call me that." James grit out. "Ever."</p><p>"A prostitute or Bucky?"  Steve knew before he opened his mouth that he shouldn't have pushed-- and when he felt James' fingers wrap around his jaw he knew he had fucked up. </p><p>"Either. We are strangers, you and me." James made Steve meet his eye the entire time. He knew he was probably hurting the man's feelings but there were truths to be said and some to be left unsaid. Like how he'd missed the skinny kid when he'd first left. "A lot of time has passed, too much to hold any claim over who we used to be. We've spent more time apart and unknowing of each other's lives than we ever did as friends. We aren't friends, we aren't ever going to be friends again. I don't understand how you even recognized me. I surely didn't recognize you, Steve Rogers." </p><p>Steve had never been good at hiding any emotion, he was as plain as words on a page. Now a world of hurt flickered through his open face. At long last those clear blue eyes closed and Steve let out a shaky breath. "It's your eyes. I'd know your eyes from a photo of millions." </p><p>Somehow James doubted it, he scoffed and let Steve's face go. </p><p>"I see your mom. . . Every now and then and Becca." </p><p>James flinches like he's been slapped. He hadn't thought of the in any real capacity in more than a decade. "I dont care." He said offhandedly. </p><p>"I didn't tell them you're home." Steve looks like he wants to put his hand on James's shoulder, touch him in some way. </p><p>"<i>Home</i>" James spits. "This isn't home. My home is. . . Well its not here.". </p><p>"I tried to find you once. After I had resources at my disposal. It was like you were a ghost. I. . . I didn't even know where you'd gone." Steve just won't let up with this sentimentality.</p><p>"Steve. I have work soon. . . I'll still. . . I'll look over that file. Just give me some space. I don't need you being a loose end." James raked his hands back through his hair. </p><p>"Loose end?" Steve questioned, not moving. </p><p>"Maybe my English is suffering. Maybe that's not the right phrase." Loose end was exactly what he'd meant. "You should go get someone to look at that head wound.  Maybe that wife of yours." James's left hand reached out and tapped the wedding band on Steve's finger, the metal on metal bell-like in the dimly lit room. </p><p>A look passed over Steve's face but didn't remain long-- just long enough that James saw. Just long enough that James recognized it as the same one that sometimes haunted him in the mirror.</p><p>Steve brought his thumb up from between his fingers and twisted the band slowly. "oh, my wife. . . She's . . . She's dead."<br/>
James knew that's what Steve was going to say before he said it.<br/>
He kicked himself. He knew the pain, vividly he knew it. And as much as he wanted to distance himself from the man, he felt for him. The way Steve's face looked now, a little pensive, a little sad and curious--- how could he have forgotten Stevie Rogers? Even huge and tall, how could he have forgotten? </p><p>Steve was just another thing taken away from him forever by the tides of his life.</p><p>James' hand shook as he grabbed onto Steve's. "I didn't know. . . I'm--"</p><p>Steve cut him off with a sad smile. "It just drives home your point, we are strangers Mr Zimniy." Steve covered his hand with his free one, fully enclosing the appendage. "I'll let you get back to . . . Your life. Shoot me a text if you decide to go over those files. No pressure. I'm sorry for assuming so much, sorry I didn't respect your privacy. You just meant a lot to me. A whole lot, I guess more than I did to you, but you always were surrounded by people and friends. You were all I had. Even after you were gone,you were all I had."<br/>
Steve carefully extracted himself from the bed and sidestepped all the debris as he exited the apartment. </p><p>James was left unable to speak. Something ached in his chest, threatening to tear him apart. He wanted this though, he wanted Steve as far away as he could manage. No, he <i>needed</i> Steve to stay back. It was true what he'd said, he wasn't a good man. If James was being honest, he was a cold hearted monster. </p><p>James gets up goes, to the bathroom and shoots up. He doesn't care if his thin lie of going to work is laid bare, he doesn't care if Tony calls, he doesn't care if the Bratva show up, he doesn't care if God himself called him up from his body to stand for final judgment.<br/>
___________________________________________</p><p>He doesn't see Steve again for more than a week and when he does it's just a glimpse when James is hauling a sack of oranges and a bag of chips up to his apartment. Steve's sitting in that comically tiny car with his partner, pecking away at his laptop.<br/>
James doesn't linger, his mind flitting to the file Steve had given him, spread out on the kitchen table.<br/>
He's actually looking them over, making notes in neat, tiny writing.<br/>
He's taking his time because he wants to be thorough, he tells himself, not just to postpone the inevitable meeting with Rogers. </p><p>He fumbles with his keys as he unlocks his front door. Trying to balance the oranges and the chips. His phone's ringing and--<br/>
He has no clue why but he finds himself having another one of those horrible attacks like he had when Steve was here. He manages getting into the apartment and slamming the door closed behind him.</p><p>He sinks to the floor and breathes like Steve had made him. It helps-- he's had several of those attacks since he'd almost killed Steve. Sometimes the breathing helps, sometimes James has to scream out, namelessly. He doesn't know exactly what's triggering them, he can't pinpoint a specific emotion welling up in him--- only that it disconcerts him down to his core. Maybe he needs to come off the meth. He was putting a huge dent in the baggie he'd taken from the mark the other night.<br/>
He was doing the calculation in his head of how much heroin he'd have to do to not feel the withdrawal from the meth so badly when his phone rang again.</p><p>"What's the job, Tony?" He asks immediately into the phone.</p><p>"Awake and eager, I like that. Listen, not a job, but I thought you should know. . . Pepper wants to invite you to a party. . . Well not so much invite you as use you for arm-candy, she says security but, I know my dear wife." Tony rattles off at a breakneck.</p><p>James groans into the phone and lets his head thunk back against the door. </p><p>"Don't give me that shit. You'll do great. I mean of course you will, I own you." Tony clears his throat. "It's in a week, sober up and I mean really sober up. I want you clean in every sense of the goddamn word. I want to spotless. Tempted to piss test you but I'm gonna go out on a limb and <i>trust</i> you." </p><p>Even James wasn't stupid enough or reckless enough to deny Tony. After finishing up the call he groaned from his soul. Withdrawal was gonna be an absolute bitch. Who was James to disobey the man that owned him?<br/>
___________________________________________</p><p>Steve's eyes are heavy as he stands beside the director of his department. He was never one for this, never one to mingle and do superficial things. Steve Rogers was man of action plain and simple.<br/>
He hated being in this monkey suit, he hated sucking up to people with more money than morals.<br/>
The conversation moves between politics and fundraisers and quite frankly he doesn't understand how director Fury can stand it. Fury is also a man of action and blunt besides. But the man can charm. </p><p>There are a few local businessmen and elected officials there. All dull as dishwasher insofar as engaging conversation is concerned. It's a lot of hand shaking and lobbying. A lot of kissing ass.</p><p>The man of the hour hasn't even showed up to his own party an hour in. The rented space is . . . Grandiose to say the least, with pianos and crystal chandeliers dangling high above, peppering the milling masses with little rainbows and spots of light.<br/>
The food was good, if course it was and alcohol flowed freely. Not that Steve drank often. None of the pretty sights or the food made up for the fact that Steve had pulled two all nighters in a row with only about two hours sleep between. The Castle murder wasn't the only case he had anymore, but it was the one that bothered him the most.</p><p>The attention was graciously drawn away from him and director Fury when Tony Stark finally arrived.<br/>
Fury left Steve hovering by the bar to go make pleasantries-- they'd been invited after all by Stark himself. The man was likely interested in how they liked the latest version of his bulletproof vests.<br/>
That was Stark's racket, what had made him and his old man so filthy rich. Combat armor. Word was though, that Tony Stark had gotten into rougher dealings as a young man. Word was he wasn't strictly on the level. </p><p>Looking at him from across the room, filing in with his entourage and his lovely wife, Steve didn't doubt that. He didn't doubt for a second that Stark could be a shady guy. </p><p>With any wayward attention away from him for a moment, Steve collapses onto a chair, partially hidden by the bar.<br/>
The bartender asks if he's alright and he just orders a double scotch.<br/>
"That bad huh? Home troubles?" The bartender means well enough as he hands Steve the drink. </p><p>"Work is rough. I'm not exactly one of these rich stiffs, son." Steve is never one to be unduly rude to anyone especially a food service worker. He knocks the double scotch back in one, not really savoring it though he knows he should have. He knows it was good scotch and it was practically a sin to not relish it, to not seek out the oak and --- "Was that Glenfiddich?" Steve asks the young man, tipping the remaining drops onto his tongue.<br/>
The bartender nods. "Another?" He asks and Steve nods. Maybe it wasn't such a bad party.<br/>
Steve savors the scotch this time. He picks out the flavor of the oak casks it was aged in, the subtle toffee and candied lemon. "This the really good stuff? The twenty three year?"<br/>
Again the bartender nods. "Jesus." Steve swears under his breath. "You think Stark knows what this coats?"</p><p>"Don't think he cares." The young man actually laughs and Steve can't help but join in.<br/>
Of all things, at a party full of rich and prominent people, Steve makes friends with the staff.<br/>
They chat easily for a while, the conversation actually waking Steve up a little bit.<br/>
He feels eyes on him about three minutes into their conversation. He ignores it at first.<br/>
After a while the bartender laughs richly and slaps his own forehead. "Wait, aren't you that soldier? The one who got that experimental surgery?" </p><p>Steve cracks a smile extending his hand. "That's me. Steve Rogers." </p><p>"Scott." The bartender's hand lingers, fingers playing along Steve's palm, sliding to his wrist.<br/>
And maybe it's all the scotch he's had, maybe it's the two glasses of champagne he'd had before that--- maybe it's the lack of proper sleep, or a combination of all those things--- But he gives the young man's hand a little squeeze. He watches as his gaze flits between innocent curiosity and an all out invitation, half-lidded, lip between his teeth.<br/>
"Do you wanna give a guy a hand with a few cases of beer?" Scott says, a hint of nerves in his voice. "You look strong enough." </p><p>Steve follows the young man. This isn't something he'd normally have done. Steve wasn't impulsive, or casual.<br/>
But he follows the kid-- Scott-- not really a kid, probably in college, yes but-- Steve made himself feel so much older though he was just pushing thirty. </p><p>He tells himself he doesn't still feel the eyes on him, boring into his skull as they slip into a staff hallway.</p><p>Scott has a sweet mouth and soft skin. He makes pretty sounds and doesn't shy from a kiss on the mouth. </p><p>-----</p><p>James tries to ignore him. He tries to dismiss his presence. He tries to focus on the weird amount of attention Pepper is indeed giving him. Tony was right about arm-candy. He didn't even have a gun on him--- not that he required a gun to be deadly. He was proficient with his bare hands and a little knife before he even picked up a gun. Even though a gun came alive in his hands, became a part of him. </p><p>He feels raw and aware and awake and he <i>hates</i> it. He's sober, has been since the day Tony called. He only used enough to make the withdrawal not out and out kill him. And now he was totally in his own mind for the first time in years. </p><p>People tell him he looks good. Tony tells him he looks good. Healthy. But he doesn't feel it.<br/>
He can't wait for this damn party to be over. He had everything waiting. Everything all set up on his coffee table.</p><p>Seeing Steve Rogers skulking around made him want it even more. He wanted to go to him, ask him why the hell he was there but, Pepper kept him on a tight leash. He felt like one of those little purse dogs. He's wearing clothes Pepper picked out, an ink black suit with a deep purple shirt. The shirt is a slick material that has a light shine to it. She had his hair pulled back artfully in a bun with some of it still loose, spilling down his back.<br/>
She'd also sprayed him down with cologne he knew was sinfully over priced. He liked his own smell, not teak wood and whatever the hell else.</p><p>He sees Steve slip away with the bartender and finally manages to excuse himself from Pepper's side. He pauses at the bar and rummages around for a bottle, nobody said anything about not drinking.</p><p>He couldn't place exactly why he does it, but he follows Steve and his new friend into the hallway. </p><p>Silent as the grave he hops up onto a crate and just sits watching for a moment.<br/>
Steve has his hand braced on the wall, the other is knotted in the curls of the young man on his knees in front of him. </p><p>"Didn't take you for a cradle robber, Rogers." James calls out, necking the bottle of vodka.</p><p>Steve jolts, the kid gags, James laughs. </p><p>"What the hell?!" Steve exclaims, stuffing himself back into his pants quickly. The kid scurries away as if kicked and Steve rounds on James. </p><p>James tries to ignore the way Steve's eyes linger on him, instead choosing to growl out; "why are you here?" </p><p>Steve straightens his tie and tries to flatten his messed up hair. "I was invited. And you?"<br/>
James eyes him warily. "I'm playing arm candy for Mr Stark's wife. Guess you did hit the nail on the head about me. Cats out of the bag as they say. Escort, not prostitute." He hops down from the crate and pats Steve maybe a little too roughly on the cheek with his metal hand. He chuckled to himself. Maybe he was a prostitute proper, a gun whore. "I'm done with the file. I'll tell you when I'm free."<br/>
He starts to head back to the party before he pisses off his boss. </p><p>A small, strangled sound escaped Steve's lips, James turns his head back toward him.<br/>
"You look, you look good, James." Steve stammers out.<br/>
James laughs softly "what is it they say about appearances and them being deceiving?" </p><p>And then he's gone, out onto the main floor, in a sea of other well dressed people with a glint of metal fingers.<br/>
_____________________</p><p>He's been putting Nat off for a week-- of course he was, he was detoxing. He owed her. She'd dropped the thick as hell file off with him at the coffee shop he was quickly starting to call theirs and she hadn't given him any shit.<br/>
Fuck that file had been a treasure trove. The things he now knew-- he wondered with an astonishing spark of excitement if even Steve knew them. How long had it been since he'd felt excited about something? </p><p>Now he was standing in his tiny kitchen really using the stove for the first time. He had ingredients strewn over the counter and was wracking his drug addled brain, trying to remember the recipe exactly. His fingers are normally nimble but presently this cabbage was getting the better of him. He was glad he'd bought more than he needed. </p><p>He'd tried watching a YouTube video for the recipe but the bubbly girl presenting the video just didn't do it right. She cut the stem entirely out of the cabbage before boiling it and that just wasn't right. The woman who's taught him to cook cut it most of the way but left it in, used it as a handle to remove the outer leaves as they cooked faster than the inner leaves. </p><p>He could do this on his own.<br/>
His filling was good he knew. He'd mixed millet in with his rice and added a little more pork than beef, a little extra garlic and shredded the carrots finely. </p><p>He had cold stuffed peppers chilling in the fridge.  Appetizers. Jesus Christ, James, overdoing it?<br/>
He smiled to himself. Hell if the peppers were overdoing it then the crumble cake he'd made was just a step too far. He'd ground the oat flour himself, mixed it with the nice cold butter just as he'd been told, using a grater, dipping it at intervals into the flour so it didn't stick to the device. It was layers of crumble and cream and berries. . .</p><p>He smiled genuinely as his Голубцы started coming together.<br/>
"I'd have made a good son to you, Winnie Barnes." The thought cuts through him like a knife, unbidden. He drops the lid of the pot he's cooking his dish in. It clatters on the floor but he doesn't hear it. His hands fly to his mouth and he bites back bitter sobs.<br/>
________________________</p><p>"You didn't burn anything." Nat is sitting across from James as he listlessly picks at his plate. He's recently shot up and Nat is very aware of it but she doesn't pass judgement outwardly.  </p><p>"What can I say? I'm a cook at heart." He has a slight slur and his eyes drop closed at intervals. </p><p>The peppers are still in the fridge, to hell with them. And fuck the cake too.</p><p>Nat has a tight smile on her lips, a knowing smile. "Rough day?" She asks and he nods, knowing he can't hide from her. </p><p>"Nothing outside the usual." He says with a sigh.<br/>
She settles in at last and takes a bite. Her smile brightens her whole face. "Ah, Mother Russia." She breathes and they both break into an easy laughter.<br/>
Their merriment seems tinged with an edge of sorrow for James. It eats at him the same way it always does when he tries to let himself have anything nice.</p><p>They eat and talk and the whole time, James just wants to escape, but he forces himself to stay and try to hold onto his one friendship with both hands.</p><p>When they're sipping tepid beer and feeling full Nat asks "Don't I get dessert?" </p><p>James sighs, "fridge. Help yourself, I'll be back." He says and excuses himself from the table and heads toward the bathroom.</p><p>Nat serves herself a tiny slice of the cake, admiring the way James kept the layers separate even though it was all a loose mixture. It was good, layers of cream cheese and berries and. . . Damn he'd been gone a long time. </p><p>"James?" She called. "I'm gonna eat the whole thing!"</p><p>Her smile fades the longer she waits for a response. "James?" She calls again. She's on her feet a moment later, following him to the bathroom. </p><p>He's slumped down between the sink and the toilet. His eyes half open, jaw slack. The panel in his arm is wide open as well, a syringe jutting out from it. "James!" Nat cries, part concern part reprimand. He doesn't budge.</p><p>"James?" She rushes over and shakes him. His skin is clammy, bluish, he's breathing but it's very shallow. When she moves him, his head lolls to the side. "Zimniy! Wake up!" She shakes him hard but he doesn't respond. "James, how much did you take?!" She holds his face, looking into his pinprick pupils. "Fuck." She hisses and digs around in his pockets for his cellphone. "You're lucky I love you you stupid bastard." She rings Tony Stark.</p><p>When he miraculously picks up she sighs before speaking. "Mr Stark." She says. "I'm a friend of James Zimniy. He needs help." As she talks through everything with Tony, James begins to shake against her.<br/>
"Please hurry." Her voice is schooled into calm but her heart is beating against her ribs like it wants to break free.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. He just regrettably forgets to exceed expectation</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>James wakes up and gets an unpleasant surprise.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Mention of past animal abuse and death in this chapter.</p><p>Follow me on Tumblr! <a href="https://ibuckybarnes.tumblr.com/"> Here!</a></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He opened his eyes to flowers. <br/>How out of place. <br/>His eyes couldn't focus properly more than a few feet away, everything was haloed in a blurry fog, the light distorted and shadows stark. <br/>He couldn't raise his arm when he went to rub at his eyes. A little jolt of panic went through him and sobered him quite quickly. He blinked hard, the room coming into focus. He wasn't home. The bed was too soft and it smelled too nice. The sheets a higher thread count than his rent could afford.</p><p>He wracked his brain trying to remember where he might be and why. The last thing he could recall was cooking for Nat. <br/>Nat? <br/>No this wasn't her place. This place was . . . Opulent. Artfully lit, floor to ceiling windows, billowy drapes, huge tv on the wall, built into a recess that he could tell closed seamlessly if the need arises. </p><p>He cautiously swings his legs over the edge of the bed, those still seem to be in working order. His toes hit thick pile carpet softer than the blanket James usually sleeps under. <br/>He's wearing soft, loose pajama bottoms, not his own. Nothing he'd have ever worn or chosen for himself.<br/>His left arm is still a heavy and useless lump hanging from his shoulder. He pushed down the spiking panic, storing it away. He tested his weight on his legs and stood slowly. His first few steps were tentative, halting. How long had he been out? Long enough that his muscles felt stiff and foreign to him. He leans heavily on the nightstand and goes through the little drawer there. Nothing is inside but a half empty bottle of cheap waterbased lube and a few discarded coins.<br/>No gun, his piece isn't there. Why would it be? Of course he can't have any comfort, any sense of safety.</p><p>He makes it to the door. His right hand clutches at the doorknob. He almost expects it to be locked but it turns easily in his grasp. </p><p>His back is already aching from carrying around the dead weight of his metal arm. </p><p>When it's functional it takes a lot of its own weight. Hydraulics and some other shit he doesn't quite understand. He knows his blood flow powers turbines in it, he knows it has his actual human nerves grafted into it, he knows he secretly resents the limb and every circumstance that lead to its existence.<br/>Now it hangs limp and useless and he doesn't know <i>why</i>. </p><p>The door opens to a vaguely familiar hallway all sleek and modern steel and glass and <i>cleanliness</i>. <br/>There are several more doors in the hallway. He doesn't pry, not really nosy enough to care. <br/>His bare feet slap on the polished floors as he walks out onto a glass landing at the top of stairs made of the same thick glass. <br/>The landing is open, facing out onto a beautiful living room furnished in luxury items James barely has names for. <br/>"Fuck." He utters, finally realizing where he is, because <i>of course</i> this is where he'd be.</p><p>"And a good morning to you too, James." A woman's voice to his left makes him jump, nearly off the landing. </p><p>"Mrs. Stark." He greets once he has control over the pounding of his heart. <br/>The confusion is clear on his face and as Pepper crests the top of the glass staircase she holds her hand out to him. He foolishly tries offering his dominant left hand. <br/>She gives him a tight smile and places her hand on the arm. Another spark of panic shoots through him when he can't feel it. </p><p>"What's the last thing you remember, James?" She asks kindly. She's deceiving, she has more of a criminal mind than Tony. But he supposes that also comes with the business person territory. <br/>Tony isn't much of one of those either. </p><p>"I. . . I was cooking for Na--- my friend." His mouth is suddenly dry and his knees feel a little week. </p><p>"Natalie right? She's lovely." He can see Pepper's hand slowly running up and down his arm and the numbness, the immobility is starting to freak him out.</p><p>"What's wrong with my arm?" He asks, the panic now clawing at his chest.</p><p>"You scared us all there for a while. You've been out for a month." If he didn't know better he'd believe her. He was only an asset to be used at their discretion. If they were worried it was about the cash they'd paid for him. </p><p>"M-my arm?" </p><p>Pepper continues to ignore him in regards to said arm. "Tony's gonna want to talk to you. Don't expect him to be calm and nice like me." She cups his chin now and makes him focus his fear stricken eyes on her. "You fucked up. Chance after chance we've given you, there are limits, James." </p><p>James feels like he's just been told he's going to the gallows, and maybe he is. <br/>His blood runs cold and he tries to think of something to say. </p><p>"He's in his office. Go see him." Pepper said before he could even form half a coherent thought. Now she's got something like genuine pity in her eyes and James just walks past her to the stairs.</p><p>He's a man, goddamnit. He was raised by the Bratva, watched his child's mother's brains splatter across the snow. He could sure as fuck face some little rich boy who wanted to play at being a gangster. </p><p>He raised his functional hand to knock at Tony's office door. </p><p>"Come in, Zimniy." Tony's voice within calls out. James pushed the door open and immediately the fight left him. His knees go weak again, like jelly. </p><p>"Mr Stark?" He questions, leaning heavily on the door. </p><p>Tony is flanked by three of his other hired goons, each bigger than the last. <br/>But they're not the issue. James's eyes are locked on the <i>chair</i>. </p><p>It glistens, polished and looking brand new in the corner by the bookshelf. It was no ordinary piece of furniture.  Where did Tony get it? <br/>Tony stood slowly and crossed to the chair. </p><p>"No." James is on his knees now without having realized he'd even moved.</p><p>"This was in your file, pictures of it anyway, I had it built custom." Tony's hand slides over the metal arm rests and toys with the restraints. "The Bratva were very forthcoming with answers to any of my questions."</p><p>"What are you going to do?" Memories flooded James's mind in an unrelenting torrent. Himself, young, small, being locked in that goddamn thing for days. It was where he had the metal fused to his flesh. It was where they broke his spirit.  </p><p>"You're not any use to me anymore, James." Tony says it like he's doing him a favor, like he's cutting his bonds and freeing him. "At least til you learn your lesson." </p><p>"I don't understand." The room sways. He's suddenly being lifted bodily by the three goons. He fights, God he fights with everything he's got. He swings with his right arm, right at ones face but he's easily sidestepped. A knee rushes up to his solar plexus and he's suddenly limp and gasping for breath. They wrangle him into the chair and strap him down. </p><p>"You're not this!" He cries, raspy from the blow. "You're not a cruel man!" He insists to Tony. Tony just shakes his head. </p><p>"Maybe the world makes people harder than they have to be, maybe it turns people into things they weren't meant to be." Tony says like he even has a goddamn notion. What the fuck did Tony know about suffering and being forced to do things against his will? What the fuck did Tony know other than privilege?</p><p>"Fuck you." He said as fat fingers shove a rubber piece into his mouth. He bites onto it, nipping flesh as he does. <br/>It earns him a slap from the goon but, Tony puts his hand up, putting a stop to further blows. </p><p>The attached tray table swivels out and Tony appraises his tools. <br/>He's breathing shakily as Tony opens the maintenance panel on his arm. <br/>James chanced to look down, scared of the horror he might see. What had they done to stop the arm working? </p><p>Tony removes a hastily soldered computer chip and James's arm goes from dead and numb to excruciatingly alive. He still cannot move it but he feels it at least. It hurts. It always hurt but now it's ten times as bad. </p><p>He bit hard onto the rubber piece as Tony kept rooting around. <br/>"You know, if it weren't for my old man, I could have been something in the tech racket." Tony was saying, he had a tiny screwdriver and made a satisfied sound when something clicked.<br/>James felt the plates of his arm all loosen like they were venting after a hard fight. Another click and the plates fell limply on the internal skeleton of the arm. </p><p>James struggled to spit the rubber mouth guard out. "Tony! What're you doing?!" He exclaimed, trying in vain to get out of the restraints. </p><p>"Just making sure you know who owns you. Who makes the decisions, who <i>graciously</i> hasn't washed his hands entirely of you and left you dead in a ditch somewhere. This is equipment, this arm, it's a privilege and you keep shitting on what you have." Tony switched tools and James nearly blacked out at the pain. His scream echoed through the house. "You get no guns, no gear, no arm. It's my property to do whatever I want with."</p><p>It took him a long while to stop screaming.<br/>"No!" He raved as he realized what was happening. "No you'll kill it!" His flesh hand tore at the padding on the armrest. <br/>"It has to stay on! The nerves will die! Tony!" </p><p>Tony yanks on something and is spurted in the face with blood. One of the goons wipes his face without being asked to. </p><p>"Somebody get that mouth guard back in him!" Tony barks as he ties off the line. </p><p>"No, please!" James resists the hands trying to force the black device back between his teeth. "Please Tony, I'll never feel it again! Please! Don't take my arm!"</p><p>"I really don't like begging outside the bedroom, Zimniy." Tony undoes something inside and the entire outer shell of the arm slides off. "Jesus it's heavy." Tony grunts as he lets it fall to the floor with a harsh clank. </p><p>"Please. . . Please stop." James sobs.</p><p>"There are softer spots I could hit you. You know that right? Spots that would hurt more. A spot about this tall" <br/>Tony held his hand around shoulder height from his seated position. "With pigtails and blue-gray eyes." </p><p>James bites into the meat of his lower lip so hard it bleeds, trickling down his chin steadily. He nods once, curtly and lays back against the chair. </p><p>The air hurts, the slightest touch feels like he's being stabbed again and again. The delicate mesh of mechanics and biology that were the nerves of the arm were all on raw display, unprotected, unsheathed. </p><p>Tony was none too gentle in disconnecting the inner workings as well, ignoring James's screams and the sobs he couldn't bite back. </p><p>It's by some divine grace that James blacks out. </p><p>When he wakes again he is in his own bed.  His covers are pulled up around him and the heat is on. </p><p>He sits up slowly, off balance, listing to the right. A sob tears through him when he realizes it hadn't been a nightmare. His entire body shakes as he gets up. He doesn't make it three steps before collapsing onto the floor and wretching up bile onto the carpet. </p><p>He's having a panic attack and it's a bad one, the kind where it feels like ones having a heart attack. The kind where ones vision goes a little black and breathing becomes impossible. <br/>The room tilts violently. </p><p>Why didn't Tony just kill him? What real use was he now? He couldn't fight, couldn't shoot, he couldn't do anything. </p><p>His thoughts spiral. He's lost his arm all over again he's faced with that reality for the second time. </p><p>He curled his remaining arm around his head and wept til his body forced him back to sleep. </p><p>Time went on like that for what could have been days. He woke, panicked, puked, blacked out and repeated the process multiple times. </p><p>Thirst was what pulled him out of the floor at last. It seemed to be early morning if the quality of the light coming through the window was any indication. </p><p>He stumbled on shaking legs to the bathroom and gulped down several glasses of water.<br/>The first came right back up but James was persistent and forced more into his body.</p><p>He realized after a while that someone had cleaned the place floor to ceiling. Someone had fixed the light in the bathroom and peeled the magazine pages off the bedroom windows. <br/>It could only have been Nat. And he knew why--- so Tony wouldn't find anything. So Tony wouldn't see the files and the photos. All the little things he was doing that had nothing to do with what he was made for.</p><p>He realized with a jolt that he couldn't access his safe easily any more. He'd have to move several things, such as the bed if he wanted to move the dresser to get to it. <br/>And where the hell was his phone?</p><p>He groaned, walking around his spotless apartment like he'd never been there before. He kept stumbling over things, he couldn't get his balance right without the arm. </p><p>A quick scan told him there were neither drugs nor alcohol in the apartment. At least he'd been out for the detox this time. </p><p>He found his phone on the VCR laying beside the remote and plugged in to charge. </p><p>He had hundreds of notifications. Several dozen texts from Nat and-- he paused, looking down at the screen. Six texts from Steve.</p><p>
  <i>Rogers: hey, James, just wondering about those files</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Rogers: James? You said you'd be in touch yeah?</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Rogers: I stopped by your apartment. Door was open, did you move? Nothing of yours is there.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Rogers: met a girl at your place, she's nice, took me for coffee. She told me you're sick</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Rogers: I hope you're doing alright.</i>
</p><p><i>Rogers: plz don't die on me Buck. I dnt want 2 lose u again</i> </p><p>A little spike of rage flares up in him and he's dialing Steve before he can think better of it.</p><p>A groggy voice answers "h-hello?" </p><p>"Lot of nerve you got! What the fuck is that last message about?" </p><p>"James?!" Steve's voice is suddenly alert and excited. "Oh Christ I thought you were dead." </p><p>James scoffed and sat down on one of the dining chairs. "Didn't answer my question." </p><p>"Can I come over? Your friend Natasha gave me your notes."</p><p>Natasha eh? She trusted him with her close-as-possible-to-real name? <br/>James just stated "yes. Bring food." Without giving himself a chance to say anything different and hung up.</p><p>He let the phone drop to the table top with a clatter. There were a lot of things he wasn't letting himself feel at present. The ache for something familiar was one of those things, perhaps though that's why he invited Steve over. <br/>It takes him a while to move again, a while to trust himself not to have a panic attack. Did he really want to see Steve? <br/>Maybe not but he surely couldn't welcome the man into his home wearing nothing but his boxers and a frown. </p><p>He was able to navigate to his closet. All its contents were suspiciously clean. Had Nat really gone through the trouble of doing a clean sweep of the entire place? <br/>As he filed through his clothes all neatly hung, he groaned aloud at all the stylish buttondowns he'd not be able to manage now. <br/><i>Maybe never again.</i><br/>That intrusive thought nearly pulled James into another attack. Jesus fucking christ, get yourself together, James. He cursed himself. </p><p>He took an old charcoal Henley out of the closet along with a pair of jeans he thought he could get done up with one hand. A shower was in order, he had dried puke on him and smelled to high heaven. He dreaded going in front of the mirror again. </p><p>His shoulder was capped off with smooth metal, Tony must have engineered it himself. </p><p>He chanced running his hand along the cold surface. It made his heart leap into his throat.<br/>He turned the lights out and showered in the dark. </p><p>________</p><p>Steve nervously fidgeted with his wrist watch. He finally had a few days off after two months and he was up way earlier than he planned.<br/>But, if he was being honest with himself, the boredom was getting to him. He was used to putting his brain and body to good use. Besides, his apartment was empty and devoid of anything really personal, not much in the way of entertainment for certain. A few photos sure, and his clothes. He'd lived there for a year and a half and it still looked the way it did when he'd moved in. Pre furnished and possessing of a hotel-like quality.</p><p>James calling him out of the blue that morning had been a surprise to say the least. Not an entirely unwelcome surprise at that, now he could do something with his day. <br/>His Uber was sure taking a long time to arrive. He'd been standing on the curb waiting for fifteen minutes already. Jeez, next time he was just gonna hail a cab. </p><p>Food. James said bring food. But what? <br/>His thoughts kept wandering back to that night a week ago, he'd bought a bottle of cheap whiskey, downed it, and drunkenly texted half his contact list. Not really in character for him, but he wasn't perfect. He could afford himself a night of weakness or two. </p><p>Half an hour later he was climbing out of the Uber, balancing a cupholder full of coffee and a bag of groceries. He hadn't been keen on yet another meal of over processed fast food. He hoped James didn't mind. Hoped the man wouldn't care that he wanted to prepare them something. After all, James had only said "bring food" not what state it was to be in. </p><p>When James opened the door to Steve's knock, the big blonde's face fell along with the grocery bag, the cheery smile wiped clean from him.</p><p>"James." He knew he shouldn't gawk, knew he should probably not make a big deal of it, but his fucking arm was <i>gone</i>.</p><p>James leaned heavily on the doorframe as he stooped down to pick the dropped bag up. "Come in." He said, turning away and going into the apartment. <br/>It was still as clean as it was when Steve had stopped by those few times. Those times he'd seen Natasha and talked to her. </p><p>It pained him that the thought of wondering how sullen, standoffish, James Zimniy had such a warm friend came into his mind. Sure she was as guarded as James was but, she was at least friendly. </p><p>He also didn't like the thought that maybe James was just sullen and standoffish toward <i>him</i>.</p><p>Steve didn't realize just how closely he was following behind until James stopped and he ran right into the man. <br/>He expected more of the prickliness, or all out hostility but James just laughed under his breath.<br/>"You did this when we were little too." James's nonchalance was at odds with the jolt of mixed emotions that zipped through Steve's core. </p><p>Steve made a gutted sound but James seemed to ignore it.</p><p>"One of those coffees for me?" James put the grocery bag down on the dining table and snatched one of the cups from the tray. He smelled it before he sipped the overly sugary concoction. </p><p>"I. . . " Steve opened and closed his mouth a couple of times. "Can I cook?" He finally settled on, reigning his emotions into check. So what if James's arm was off, it probably did that right? Came off? Most prosthetics did. But Steve wasn't a fool, he could tell just by looking that James's arm wasn't any type of normal fake limb.</p><p>James's laugh, sudden and sharp, startled Steve from his thoughts. </p><p>"Cook? Really?" James asked "are you some gourmand, come to dazzle me?" He sat down on one of the straight backed dining chairs and sipped the coffee. </p><p>"No, I. . . I just thought I could. . ." Steve sighed heavily, letting his broad shoulders sag. "I was following my own stomach to be honest." He ran his hands back through his hair. </p><p>James looked at him, really assessing him for once. His casual clothes would have looked more at home on a man twice his age. Khakis and a button down with a shapeless jacket. James refused to let himself smile about it. "You can cook. Not like I use the damn kitchen anyway."</p><p>That was contradictory to what Natasha had told Steve but he didn't press the matter. Steve just picked up the grocery bag and set about exploring the kitchen for cookware. </p><p>James's eyes followed him. He watched as the man rummaged around, pulling out pans and pots--the few there were-- til he found suitable ones. The one armed man sipped his coffee while Steve cooked what appeared to be lean chicken and a mountain of vegetables. <br/>He tried not to critique Steve in his mind as he worked, tried not to judge the seasonings he used, or, the lack there of in this case. <br/> After a while James couldn't take it any longer with an exclamation under his breath of "жизнь моя." He stood and shooed Steve aside. <br/>"How did you never learn to cook?" He admonished taking spices and little things in jars down out of the cabinet beside the stove. <br/>Steve looked down at his pallid chicken and vegetables, simmering in the pan. "I. . . Survive on my cooking just fine thank you." </p><p>James snorted and started sprinkling things in. Soon the formerly simple dish smelled heavenly and had a rich tomatoey sauce with it. </p><p>Steve was watching James work with an unreadable expression perhaps bordering on fondness. When James noticed he scowled. "Don't tempt me to toss this in the trash and you into the hall." His voice had none of the intended fire. </p><p>He'd put on a pot of rice and as he waited for it to cook he set the chicken dish to simmer, to deepen the flavors and thicken the sauce. </p><p>"Would you rather I sat down? Got out of your way?" Steve asked softly. His mind had drifted to dangerous territory; the way James had his hair tied up in a messy bun, how long and shapely his fingers were, the way his brow creased when he concentrated. </p><p>"No. I still need you to open jars." It wasn't a playful statement, just matter of fact. But it did draw attention to the missing limb outright for the first time. </p><p>Steve almost raised his hand to touch the metal stump right where the sleeve of the Henley James wore was neatly ripped off. Almost. </p><p>"James, do you want to tell me what happened?" He asked instead and for a long moment James looked ready to make good on his threat of tossing the food and Steve out. He'd raised the pan and his eyes darted to his trash can. </p><p>With a sigh he just put the pan back down and shook his head. "Malfunction. Don't worry about it." He lied coolly. "This is me for the foreseeable future." He raised the stump sort of half assed.  </p><p>"I'm sorry." Steve responded. </p><p>"Why should you be?" James passed a jar of roasted peppers to Steve who popped it open easily. </p><p>"Compassion didn't used to be such a foreign thing to you, James." Steve stated softly. </p><p>"We were kids." James insisted for the thousandth time. "I grew up." </p><p>James removed the rice from the heat and fluffed it up with a fork. The rice didn't remain plain for long and soon had all sorts of delicious smells and flavors mixed in. </p><p>"I'm excited to talk about the case with you." Steve switched to a subject he thought might be safer, <i>allowed</i>.</p><p>"Funny, I've actually been looking forward to it too." There is a hint of something in James's voice that sounds genuinely surprised at the fact. If only Steve knew how devoid of joy his life was. "I don't. . . Have my notes." He shrugged a little.</p><p>"Natasha gave me your notes, I have them in my messenger bag."</p><p>"Purse."</p><p>Steve blushed the same as when he was a little guy, then. James watched the tips of his ears go pink first before his cheeks blotched with color. He gave Steve a little sideways smirk. </p><p>"My wife called it that to." Steve let out in a breathless chuckle, dropping his head, resignedly. </p><p>They go quiet for a time, the heavy subjects of dead wives and lovers hanging thick in the air like humidity before a storm. </p><p>"Tell me about her, what happened?" His file hadn't mentioned her. A curious oversight. And it wasn't that James wanted to get too personal or friendly but it was the human thing to do right? The <i>good</i> thing to do?</p><p>Steve looks a little surprised at the question. Honestly, Steve can't believe James is even asking, but he doesn't fool himself into thinking that this is a chink in James's armor. </p><p>"A lot about her is classified, under an NDA. Lots of government red tape.  But she was a British girl with brown hair and a temper like nothing. She was brave and good and so very very smart." Steve got Misty eyed as he spoke. James tried to read every line and micro movement of Steve's face.</p><p>"Brave and good and smart eh? That what makes somebody a candidate for Steve Rogers's heart?" James chuckles trying to lighten the mood. "Counts me out on all three counts theh---then. . ." James realizes what he's saying far too late to stop him saying it. Sure Steve was cute and everything but he . . . He was some Federal agent and a mopey widower right out of some southern gothic novel. And his obsession for prepubescent James <i>Barnes</i> was kind of a turn off.</p><p>It takes everything in him to pry his eyes off the food he's cooking to look at Steve's face. </p><p>Steve looks like someone struck him, he's red from his ears to his neck and probably below that. <br/>Steve licks his lips, James can see a war in his head raging behind his eyes. His muscles twitch almost imperceptibly. <br/><i>please don't try to kiss me. Please don't try to kiss me.</i> James repeats in his head like a prayer as Steve reaches to grip James's chin, pressing his thumb into the pretty divot there. <br/>"You need to stop self deprecating, James." He said softly.</p><p>James feels like a trapped rabbit but his shoulders drop, tension flooding out when Steve reaches behind him and grabs plates. </p><p>Steve is all compliments as they eat. James is hungry in a genuine, healthy human way for once and it's startling to him. </p><p>The conversation is easier than before they even laugh a little at Steve's stupid jokes. <br/>James's snide comments fit together perfectly with Steve's dorky sense of humor.</p><p>Eventually the conversation turns to the case. James is comfortable enough that he rattles off everything he gleaned from the crime scene in an excited blur. <br/>They have the photos spread out amongst the dishes and empty coffee cups. <br/>All James's neat notes on display. </p><p>"And I bet you didn't even look under the couch cushions!" James exclaims after presenting his murder weapon theory. </p><p>Steve sits astonished. "You're amazing." He says in an elated and awestruck tone. "Where'd you learn all this detective work?"</p><p>James's smile faded to be replaced by a vaguely sad and faraway look. "I might have been a bit of an operative back in Russia." </p><p>"Operative?" Steve queries, laughing. "Like a spy or something?"</p><p>"It's hard to explain." James sighs "but it didn't end well. I uh, got involved with something less than savory. Maybe a little illegal." Not the truth but not much of a lie.</p><p>"I won't press. I know you're a very private man, guarded, isolated even." <br/>James knows Steve didn't mean for the remark to hurt but it does. Did he really come off as a porcupine of a man with a steel wall around him? Of course he did. Of course he'd been made into that. </p><p>"Bratva." He blurts out before he can stop himself. Goddamn the soft spot he'd always had for Stevie Rogers.</p><p>"What?" Steve's eyes go wide, the photo he was holding flutters onto the tabletop. </p><p>"Bratva. The mob. The Russian Mafia. I'm not a fancy escort for rich old bastards and pretty women! I'm a killer! Contractually obligated to be a gun for whoever owns me!" James rakes his hand back through his hair, the appendage is shaking like a leaf. "That's who Winifred sold me to, the Bratva." <br/>His eyes are wild and terrified like a cornered animal when they raise to meet Steve's.</p><p>"Okay." Steve breathes out, reassuring himself as much as James. "Okay." </p><p>"Steve." The name sounds like a plea, like saying it is keeping James from spiralling.</p><p>No these weren't things James had wanted to tell Steve, his Fed childhood friend. It was too much and it could get him killed in either direction. Maybe this was what it was. An ending, an out. Jail, prison, death. Something he deserved.</p><p>"She. . . Sold you?" Steve asked after a long while of tense silence. This wasn't the point James expected Steve to pick up on.  Him being in the mob was the main theme here. <br/>"James, your mother <i>sold</i> you?" </p><p>Steve had always wondered why Winnie Barnes had moved into a nicer apartment and didn't seem to have to worry about much after James had disappeared. <br/>But he'd never have pegged her for selling her son. </p><p>"She had a debt. A small debt. One that anybody without a drug problem could have easily saved up to pay off. But they offered her more money than she'd ever seen for me." James was shaking like a leaf. "She took the offer so fast that I didn't even have time to grab any clothes, or. . . Or say goodbye to anyone, even Becca." </p><p>Even <i>you</i> was the subtext.</p><p>"Stevie, I. . . They made me into something. I don't even know who I am anymore." Why was he spilling his guts like this? He'd never spoken to a soul about this save for Tania and even then he'd left some bits out. </p><p>Walls were crumbling in the mere presence of Steve Rogers. </p><p>"I'm sorry." Steve spoke softly, was he fucking crying?</p><p>"Sorry I told you all this or sorry about having to lock me up?" James tensed up and doubly so when Steve let out a soft sob.</p><p>"I'm sorry it happened to you." </p><p>"Stevie I'm telling you I'm a cold blooded killer. An assassin." James has the urge to slap him but refrains for the moment.</p><p>"Everything in me is saying there were signs. That if I'd have used an ounce of my training I'd have realized. Maybe I was blinding myself because it's <i>you</i>. The blood on the bathroom sink at the coffee shop, the lockpicking skill set." Steve scrubbed at his face with his palms. "Oh Jesus, James. This isn't you. . . This isn't a life you'd have picked for yourself. I'm not turning you in."</p><p>"Goddamn it Steve! I'm a murderer. I killed a man while he was on the phone with his --- his kid!" He'd almost said daughter but he had no way of knowing the gender of the child. Projecting, eh Zimniy?</p><p>"But you'd never have done that unless you'd been made to!" Steve insisted. </p><p>"And what does that say about me? Just the fact that I can be made to?"</p><p>"What did they do to you?!" Steve is standing now. "They had to, to, to break you or something because the James Barnes I know wouldn't have just become some killer! You bottle feed six kittens when those asshole kids in the neighborhood stomped the mother cat to death! You fought everyone who ever laid a finger on me!" </p><p>"I'm not James Barnes anymore! I'm not your Bucky!" James was up like a shot, fist slamming into the tabletop making the dishes rattle. "I'm not a pers. . . . I'm not. . . I'm." </p><p>"And they're holding your kid over your head too aren't they?"</p><p>"You don't know shit about my kid." James deflated, backing up against the fridge. </p><p>"I can help you."</p><p>"I'm not rolling on anyone. I'm not giving up a single name." </p><p>"James. Let me help." Steve approached cautiously, palms up, unthreatening. </p><p>"Maybe I don't need help! Maybe I love this life." </p><p>"Then why the drugs and alcohol? Why the rage and chaos and panic attacks?" <br/>Steve was mere inches away now and when he held them out, James practically crawled into his big arms. </p><p>"How can you possibly help me? What could you possibly do?" James was shaking but he allowed himself to hold onto Steve for dear life, his one hand clutching onto his stupid old man buttondown. </p><p>"I can make you disappear." Steve whispers in James's ear.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. You wish you weren't kind of glad</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Add me on Xbox! My gamertag is BuckyBarnes8999! <br/>(I really only ever play Fallout 76, Apex Legends and Sea of Thieves.)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>James lights a cigarette. He typically has a rule about not smoking cigarettes in his house but he's under a lot of stress with the current situation. </p><p>His hand shakes as he takes a long drag off the somewhat dried out thing.<br/>
Steve is sitting in the chair opposite him now, looking concerned. The past two hours of talk has been some of the roughest ground Steve has ever had to traverse. He knew one false move was going to make James balk and run. The man was a minefield. </p><p>They'd just gone over the events of the night James had vanished. </p><p>Winnie Barnes had let a bunch of men in their shoebox apartment, men James couldn't understand at that time. But he'd stayed awake, hugging himself under the covers, listening.<br/>
Sometimes Winnie brought men over, that was just a natural part of the whole business of their lives. Sometimes the men stayed a long time, sometimes not, sometimes they brought acrid smells and clinking bottles. Sometimes they hit Winnie.<br/>
James learned quickly what happened when he tried stepping in in regards to the safety of his mother. Men that beat women usually have zero qualms about beating kids too. Especially some inconsequential little brat who belonged to a crack whore.<br/>
Becca knew better and never once made herself more than the shadow on the back wall, a little ghost girl, a cat underfoot. She was smart, had a sense of self preservation to go with her big, round eyes and perpetually darkened eyelids. </p><p>The only thing he really was still thankful to Winnie for was that if any of the men got handsy with <i>them</i> she'd turn them out on their ass. Though there had been a time or two she'd been so coked out that James had had to defend his own innocence.</p><p>But this night something was different, something was amiss. There was no shouting, no dramatics, no bottles or drugs or creaking bedsprings.<br/>
No, what he got was Winnie's hands unfolding him from the false security of his bed.<br/>
He thought that, at last, Winnie had cracked and was selling him out, that someone had offered her just what she wanted and she was desperate enough. . . He knew it happened, it wasn't a great neighborhood, Winnie Barnes wasn't the only crack whore in the <i>building</i> let alone the neighborhood. </p><p>He didn't expect the exchange of his records, birth certificate, everything of importance. Papers were signed and his heart broke.<br/>
He fought, clung onto his little sister, hell even to Winnie's leg. </p><p>He was ushered away in his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles pajamas, with nothing but the scrap of material he tore from Winnie's ratty stockings. </p><p>In James' present mind he can hear the last words he ever spoke to his mother, torn out of his throat shrilly. "Take care of Stevie! He'll get himself killed, take care of Stevie!" Not that he'd ever tell Steve that. Not that he'd ever utter it out loud to anyone, that his last thought before he was shipped off was of Steve.</p><p>As he exhaled a thin stream of bluish smoke he held his eyes closed, seeing in his minds eye, the way Winnie had turned away from him, face blank. </p><p>"I uh. James I'm sorry." Steve stammers to which James scoffs. </p><p>"You didn't do it Stevie." He slowly looks up at the hulking mass of man that used to be a skinny, sickly little boy on death's door. "Kinda has nothing to do with you." </p><p>"No, I mean, it's not my fault but I am still allowed to hate that it happened." Steve slides his hand over the table top and takes James's.<br/>
James looks down at their hands wide eyed for a moment then locks Steve in his gaze. His hand remains in Steve's. </p><p>"Your turn. How did you turn into Captain Muscular?" James read the file. He knew but he wanted to hear it from the man himself.<br/>
Steve heaves a world weary sigh, the dramatics not lost on James. </p><p>"So, I uh. . . Can I show you?" He straightens up and loosens his tie.</p><p>James looks at him slightly confused. "Yeah?" He says with more than a hint of trepidation.</p><p>Steve undoes his shirt and tie, he shucks the garment and displays a series of strange circular scars. </p><p>"When I kept applying to every branch of service, from army to navy and even police, they finally got tired of me. This scientist, Dr Erskine, he saw me at a recruitment office. He offered me one chance. . . And well, here I am living proof of one man's brilliance. He gave me a serum. . . Unfortunately Erskine . . . Erskine died soon after the procedure." </p><p>James was <i>definitely</i> not staring at Steve's perfect body. "Uh-huh." He stated dumbly. </p><p>"Sometimes I wake up thinking it was all a dream and I'll die before I'm 35." Steve laughs at his tasteless joke. </p><p>Before James can think better of it he's reaching out to slide his fingers over the set of circles on Steve's shoulder.<br/>
Steve closes his eyes at the touch. He looks so forlorn. Like some of the fight James remembers is drained out of him. </p><p>"Stevie. I lied to you." He says, flattening his palm on Steve's bicep. </p><p>"Hm?" Steve queries, cracking an eye open. How much more could James have lied already? He seems to be saying, but that's just James's own self-loathing speaking, reading into what isn't even a real syllable from Steve's mouth.</p><p>"I uh. I thought about you. All the time. <i>All</i> the time when I was taken."<br/>
Steve's eyes snap to James's, the genuine shock is clear to him and then his gorgeous blue eyes are welling with tears. </p><p>"My mom kept telling me to try to find you." Steve's voice is shockingly steady in spite of the way his lip trembles. James wishes he had such grace. </p><p>"I. . . I heard about Sarah. I'm sorry. I'm sorry she went like she did." James hesitates for a moment before adding: "and I'm sorry I was an asshole to you. When I first ran into you. . . Or when you ran into me, whatever." </p><p>Steve Rogers, the hugger, stands and pulls James into his arms for the second time that night. James tries to stay tense but he's just spilled his guts to the man. He finds himself returning the hug, letting his one arm slip around Steve. </p><p>When they part they both sit back in their respective chairs. "I uh, I'm also sorry about . . . However long ago it was, at the party." </p><p>Steve cocks his head to the side. "The pa-- oh! Oh. That's, that was no big---"</p><p>"No, I figured out what you were doing and I interrupted you with no good intentions, on purpose. I fucked up your blowjob on purpose." James actually looks so abashed that Steve lets out a chuckle. </p><p>"Jesus, Buc-- James. <i>James</i>, that's not normally something I'd do, random hookups with bartenders in corridors." The smile he's wearing crinkles the corners of Steve's eyes and it's something that James secretly tucks away in his memory for a rainy day. "You probably saved me some embarrassing conversation with that kid." </p><p>"Oh. I Figured, what with how handsome you are, you'd not have a reason to call yourself lonely at least." James chuckled halfheartedly to try and lighten his own mood. It works somewhat and he offers Steve a little smile. </p><p>"If I'm lonely it's probably my own fault. At least that's what Clint would say." Steve sips his tepid coffee and has the grace not to make a face even though its terrible by now. </p><p>Steve's phone which was laying face down on the table suddenly began to ring.<br/>
An hour or so ago he'd called up his boss, Nick Fury and explained a few things to him. He left out a few key things that made James sure that the whole thing would fall apart eventually.</p><p>James was unsure just what kind of branch of government Steve was onto that might allow murderers amongst their ranks.<br/>
Steve had explained that he wasn't a fed or whatever, he worked for an organization that acted on much of their own authority.<br/>
"I thought S.H.I.E.L.D was a myth." James had scoffed under his breath.<br/>
To which Steve had said; "That's the whole idea." They'd shared a laugh and started talking after that.</p><p>Now Steve tentatively picked up his phone. "Rogers here." Steve said into it.</p><p>"Well, Steve, you're cleared to have him;" James could clearly hear the director of S.H.I.E.L.D over the line. Steve's face brightened and he started to speak but he was cut off. "As a consultant. A consultant, Rogers. You are cleared to have him at your place or Barton's but he's not allowed <i>anywhere</i> near here. Nowhere near base or the offices, since he's made his loyalties clear as day." </p><p>Steve sighed softly "Right." He responded to Fury. </p><p>"Unless he's changed his mind on rolling, on giving us <i>something</i> one name." </p><p>James shook his head as Fury spoke, catching Steve's eye.<br/>
"He's firm on his position." </p><p>"Well get him outta that compromised apartment and somewhere else."</p><p>"Like where?" Steve pinched the bridge of his nose.</p><p>"I really don't care, Cap. Hotel, Barton's, your place, just get him outta that apartment." Fury hung up and Steve put the phone down. </p><p>"Cap?" James broke the silence. "What's that some code name?"</p><p>"Short for Captain."</p><p>"Ah." James stood to peruse the mostly empty fridge for something to drink. "So, <i>Captain</i>, what is the plan? I can't really afford a hotel." He cracked open an old ginger ale that had gone slightly flat and took a swig of it. He made a face and put it back into the fridge. </p><p>"My place?" Steve sounds apprehensive, James is a feral cat. Claws included.<br/>
Maybe rabies. "B-be-because Clint has a bunch of kids and a wife who is not afraid to wield a skillet." He added in a rush. </p><p>"I'm not intimidated by a skillet and a few kids." James stated in response, his lips turning up at the corners. The smile increased when Steves shoulders slumped just slightly, his posture barely perceptively changing to show the disappointment he was trying so hard to hide. "Then again, if we're gonna be officially working together on the case it's be best to be close by in case we get a lead." </p><p>Steve isn't subtle about the way he lights up at hearing this. "My couch folds out." He said, looking ready to jump up and start shoving James's stuff into a bag. Not a bad idea, really. </p><p>James was full of apprehension, he knew he was risking everything his life, his daughter, hell even <i>Steve's</i> life. </p><p>They'd all fucked him over though hadn't they? Tony had bought his contract, knowing how he was, knowing he was on the shit, a total wreck of a human being. He knew James wasn't on the track of getting better, whatever better was.<br/>
James was the type of man who got worse. The type of man who ended up dead from his own hand-- whether it be from his body wearing down from the drugs, or a job goes tits up from how loaded he is. Or. . . Or, he decides that gunpowder and metal sounds like a tasty snack.<br/>
That little out was tempting sometimes. Some shrink would probably analyze the hell out of him, put him on meds, put him in a nuthouse. And maybe he needs that, maybe he needs real professional help but that's for real people. Good people who don't have blood running between every page of their book, people who's stories aren't written in it. </p><p>Yeah, James has decided he isn't good, with finality. He's a coward and a killer and shit father. </p><p>He's been on his feet for the past few minutes, looking around for things. He doesn't take much, he crams a few changes of clothes into an old duffel. The duffel bag smells like pennies, just like <i>James</i> smells like pennies and gunpowder. </p><p>Steve shadows him at a respectable distance, he helps James move the dresser without being asked, without a word. </p><p>There's a thumbprint lock on the safe beneath the dresser. James presses his thumb to the little indent made for it and the door pops open. </p><p>Steve gasps at the stacks of cash inside. A couple of the bundles have dark stains dotted over them. Steve knows what they are, the stains. Blood.</p><p>James crams the money into his duffel along with his clothes, shoving the latter to one side to accommodate it all.</p><p>"Ever heard of a bank, James?" Steve asks actively trying to sound amused. He fails.</p><p>"Bank accounts mean I exist. As far as you or anyone else knows, I don't." He tucks his Beretta into the waistband of his pants in the back and zips the duffel bag. </p><p>"I thought you couldn't afford a hotel?" Steve asked, not trying to sound accusatory.</p><p>"This money is <i>not</i> for me. It's for. . . A more important purpose!" A little edge crept into James' voice.</p><p>"You leaving those CDs in the safe?" Steve asks, peering into the hole in the floor. </p><p>"Yep." James pops the P at the end sharply. </p><p>"Ready?" Steve asks and James nods, slipping into his favorite leather jacket. He pockets a small framed picture of a little baby and walks for the door.</p><p>________________</p><p>Steve's apartment is nice. Looks like nobody lives there but it's nice. Smells good, not like mold and mildew and God knows what like James' entire building did. </p><p>There's generic decor, lifeless art prints that somehow take all the soul out of the originals. "I figured you'd be an artist or something." James mutters barely audible. </p><p>"Haven't done anything like that in . . . Quite a while." Steve clapped his good shoulder in a friendly way and lead him to the living area.</p><p>"You don't have a tv?" James groused with a roll of his eyes. </p><p>The whole thing was painfully familiar.<br/>
The evidence of an uprooted life, of the lack of time to try to make a new one. </p><p>Somehow he expected Steve's home to be full of little keepsakes, he had been a sentimental kid. It made sense of course he wouldn't have his Ninja Turtles and Hot  Wheels lined up on a shelf in the corner. Of course there was no bin of Legos, no Power Rangers, no Superman poster, or hamster cage. </p><p>James is hit with a wave of unexpected sadness. The time capsule of his mind that had kept Steve a nine year old kid was open and surprise. . . Steve grew up. Steve grew up while James wasn't looking.<br/>
He barely registers all the activity around him til Steve is taking his bag from him.<br/>
He lets Steve take the bag and put it in an empty hall closet. "Thanks pal." He mutters, going to look at the one personal item he laid eye on.<br/>
A big framed photo leaning against the wall instead of hung up. </p><p>"This your wedding photo?" It obviously was unless Steve took pictures with ladies in wedding dresses on the regular. </p><p>She was pretty, Steve was laughing, happy. </p><p>"Oh uh, yeah." Steve said without defending it not being hung up. Without explaining that it would do no good, seeing as he would have taken it down to look at more often than would warrant a nail hole in the wall. </p><p>"She looks really, pretty. Like, too pretty for you." James jokes and Steve snorts. The sound is a familiar comfort, it's still the same as when they were kids. </p><p>"Do you want some Sleepytime Tea before bed?" Steve asks, changing the subject, steering it away from his dead wife. </p><p>Steve has the couch pulled out and the bed made with fresh linens. "Please tell me your nightly routine includes Sleepytime Tea."<br/>
Steve's cheeks take on a hue just short of neon pink. </p><p>"It does! That's precious!" James laughs as he toes off his shoes and lays down on top of the covers. </p><p>"D-do you want some or not?"<br/>
Steve's already heading into the kitchen, hiding his blush from James. </p><p>"I'm good, this sofa bed is softer than my own!" He called after Steve, settling back against the pillow. </p><p>"Suit yourself." Steve replied.<br/>
Moments later, James could hear the rattling of things in the kitchen.</p><p>The kitchen light went out and he heard a "good night, James." From further down the hallway. </p><p>He's left to his own devices now in a strange apartment. Great. </p><p>No really, it was great. He went through a routine he hadn't gone in a long, long time. He scouted the perimeter of the place, checked the windows and doors. He made note of all the easy outs, just in case.</p><p>He disassembled his Beretta and cleaned it. </p><p>He took advantage of Steve's shower. It was huge, big enough for more than one person and--- no, nope,<i> нет</i> he was absolutely <i>not</i> going to let his mind wander in any pervy direction. Who would he bring here to defile the place anyway?<br/>
Some girl he meets at a bar? Oh fuck. His thoughts wander in spite of himself. long legs, pouting lips, in this shower, against the wall with the hot spray of water washing over them both.<br/>
the thoughts go right to James' dick.<br/>
It had been a long time hadn't it? Since, well, he could easily push the last time out of his head. Thank you very fucking much.</p><p>He wrapped his hand loosely around himaelf, leaning slightly against Steve's shower wall. He tilted his head back and moaned softly to himself, thinking of lips on his skin. Who would he bring here? Some lonely waitress with thick thighs and broad shoulders--- <i>broad shoulders?</i><br/>
Where the hell did that thought come from?<br/>
But oh <i>fuck</i> did his thoughts spiral after that.<br/>
His cock was fully hard now and his hand flew over it as he let himself think about being slammed against the wall, his legs kicked apart, a cock, thick and full rutting between his cheeks. </p><p>"Fuck!" He cursed to himself, he really needed two arms for this fantasy.<br/>
One for his cock and one for. . . </p><p>He slid to the shower floor and parted his legs, shoving two fingers into himself immediately. He couldn't help crying out.<br/>
What happened to a simple jack off in the shower? </p><p>He pumped his fingers inside himself and let the water wash over him.<br/>
He found his spot and rubbed firmly against it. The whole experience was becoming maddening. He needed friction on his cock, but he didn't want to take his fingers out of his ass.<br/>
He was making desperate little sounds. </p><p>His cock became red and flushed, pulsing hard against his belly. His thoughts were still on being roughly fucked by a faceless wall of muscle. Maybe a blonde with a short beard.<br/>
"A-ah-ah <i>Ahh!</i>" a face he'd deny ever popping into his brain flashed into it for the briefest second, and that's all it took to send him hurtling headlong over the edge. On nothing but his fingers, James came harder than he could recall in recent memory. </p><p>He lay back fully on the shower floor, boneless, letting the water wash all the evidence away.<br/>
"You're so fucked up, James." He said out loud to himself. </p><p>When he dragged himself back to the couch/bed he was exhausted but clean. </p><p>The kitchen light was on again but he was too tired to think about it. Sleep took him almost as soon as he hit the pillow.</p>
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<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Does The Devil get scared when she dies in her dreams?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Graphic shit warning as usual. </p><p>Play Xbox with me! My gamertag is BuckyBarnes8999!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>James wakes to light filtering through yellowed curtains. They have a little roses printed on them. The way they billow outward in the mid-morning breeze makes James feel nostalgic for something he can't name. <br/>"Morning." He says when hazel eyes lock on his. </p><p>"Звезда моя" she says, looking dreamily up at him. "Kiss me." <br/>Her fingers are on his metal arm, tracing over the star there. She'd suggested more paint time and again, liked the idea of his metal arm decorated in "tattoos". He always laughed at the notion. </p><p>He takes a minute, looks at her, looks at her long eyelashes, the little scar on her lip from an accident when she was a child. His thumb traces it and she kisses the tip of the digit. </p><p>Smiling, he leans in and kisses her, slow and soft and unhurried. They don't have anywhere to be today and Sashenka is still, by some miracle, asleep. </p><p>He takes his time worshipping over miles of lightly freckled skin. He tastes her lotion, not bad, familiar more than anything. "I love you." He sighs happily against her thigh when he reaches it. <br/>She allows him to lay there between her thighs, just looking dreamily down at him. Everything feels so perfect. </p><p>She doesn't flinch when James runs his cold, metal hand over her hip and along the plane of her stomach. She's still plump from the baby, James likes the weight, likes how soft and comfortable she is. </p><p>She's so gorgeous, laying there in their bed. </p><p>The pillows are all on her side and James doesn't care because she's all he needs to rest his head on. <br/>The apartment is shabby, that's a given, because shabbiness is the state of the world as far as they're concerned. They don't know any different even though their lives skirt around splendor. </p><p>It's like museum glass is around that particular lifestyle though. Look into it but never hope to touch, and the clear, set parameters make the sting of never being <i>more</i> non-existent. They don't need a glorious life so long as they could continue to stubbornly carve out the one they've started. <br/>They have everything they need. Their living room doubles as their bedroom, sure, and Sashenka has a makeshift bedroom where the laundry room should be, but it's home. It's <i>their</i> home. Theirs, from the ratty rugs to the junky tv they'd pulled out of a scrap heap. <br/>Their fridge door is rusted and threatening to fall off it's hinges but the fridge works, the fridge is full. </p><p>He kisses down from her bellybutton now, stopping just at the top of her underwear. <br/>Her hands both reach down and card through his short cropped hair. "I love you too, James." She says, eyes flitting over his features, memorizing them. After a moment her bell like laugh rings out and she playfully pushes her pelvis against his face. </p><p>He retaliates by opening his mouth against her and licking hard, snagging fabric between his teeth. </p><p>They're naked in no time and laughing as they wrestle for dominance. She's short, at least a head and shoulders shorter than James, but she's so strong. Especially in her legs. <br/>It's with them that she gets the upper hand. She sits on James' lap and pins his arms above his head. She marks his neck and rolls her hips teasingly against his hard cock as she does so. He moans sharply. Fuck! The things this girl could do to him! He could come like this, just feeling her on top of him, her skin just barely giving him friction but she's merciful.  <br/>She positions herself and sinks down onto him, the heat of her engulfing him fully. </p><p>She's just getting into a rhythm when his phone rings. <br/> "Пиздец!" He groans.</p><p>"Let the voicemail get it!" She cries and she's kissing the breath out of him. She's so hot and wet around him that he almost just gives in to that. He almost just lets his eyes close and lets his body take over his brain. </p><p>But he knows it's work and voices as such. </p><p>"It's mhh! It's work! Звезда свет." He's close, so close and he can feel her walls starting to flutter around him, hear the increase in the pitch of her restrained sounds. </p><p>She sighs and grabs the phone off the end table, giving it to him. She doesn't stop riding him as he answers, just slows to a crawl.</p><p>"Да?" He says into the little black device as he flips it open. He is only just able to keep his breathing even, only <i>just</i> able to not make any lewd sounds. Tania doesn't make it easy and that's suddenly the game.</p><p>While James is on the phone, she does everything in her power to make him crack, just short of letting him come. </p><p>It's her fingers, slick with spit sliding between his cheeks that does it. He groaned sharply into the phone and flushed with embarrassment. "S-sorry boss, I just burned my mouth on coffee." He lies coolly. But it's still a lame excuse. </p><p>He exchanges a few more words with the person on the other end and hangs up.<br/>"We have a job." He sighs deflating a little. </p><p>Tania resumes riding him, slipping her fingers out of him. "How long do we have?" She asks, reaching now for the drawer in the end table. She slides it open and digs around. They own a very healthy array of sex toys. James would never admit to anyone that they were used on him more than anyone. </p><p>"Not enough for all that." He grunts and grabs her hips, fucking into her. </p><p>"<i>James</i>" she moans, dropping the toy back into the drawer. <br/>He raises a hand and fluffs at her short mohawk, tweaks her nose ring. </p><p>Fifteen minutes and a shower later and they're in a cab headed out of the city to meet up with their employer. </p><p>The neighbor they trust is watching Sashenka. But trust or not, James worries about her, they both do. Bratva or not, they're doting parents.</p><p>Things go south on the job. He tries not to be angry with Tania but. . . But goddamn it!<br/> They're not paid to discriminate. It doesn't matter who their mark is. If they're on the Bratva's radar they're probably not that great of a person in the first place. <br/>But the girl got away. Some fourteen year old girl who had seen too much, gotten scared and went to the police.</p><p>They were supposed to put a bullet each into her little blonde head and the head of the cop escorting her. </p><p>When it came down to it Tania couldn't do it. The girl went into the police station. The cop lived. They fucked up. </p><p>James was wishing he'd never have gotten her into this, wishes he'd have left her be in that science lab he'd found her in. He says as much to her. </p><p>She's oddly quiet on the drive back. She doesn't yell back. </p><p>"That girl was one of our associate's daughters. What's gonna happen to Sashenka when she's old enough to be a liability to them?" She says when the silence becomes too much, looking out the window and away from James. "Who's gonna put the bullet in our baby's skull?" She chokes out a sob and James sits dumbly.</p><p>That night Tania cries and won't let James touch her. </p><p>The snow whips around them as they stand to wait for their ride the next day, to the debrief. Finally, silently, Tania takes his hand as they stand there waiting for the long black car. </p><p>The doors lock as soon as they're inside. James immediately notices that door handles are removed from the inside and the safety locks are engaged. James knows somewhere in his gut that he should panic but he remains calm. Tania, he can tell, is scared. She picks at a rip in the knee of her black jeans and her teeth worry at the scar on her lip. </p><p>But James, he's schooled into calm.</p><p>Even when they step of the car hours later in Siberia, he remains calm, keeps holding Tania's hand. </p><p>He looks at her as they pull them apart, she's speaking but he doesn't hear, there's shouting, he knows that, but he can't make head or tails of it. <br/>It's like he's under water.</p><p>His employer, Vasily Karpov, is there, standing in a long black wool coat, beside a hole that's been freshly hacked out of the permafrost. </p><p>It's with idle numbness that James wonders who the poor fucker that had to dig that hole was. </p><p>He answers questions he's asked automatically. Like his whole body is robotic, not just his arm. </p><p>"You didn't take the shot?" They ask him. </p><p>"No." He says. </p><p>"You know the risk I took letting your little girlfriend in on this deal, right? She's not one of us, she's not like you, or me." </p><p>James nods in agreement. "Yes, Sir." He says, as he looks coldly into the gaping maw of the earth. The cold is harsher here, more bitter. The wind cuts like knives. </p><p>"You know we had to give Aleksander up to the feds to save the rest of us."</p><p>"Lukin?" He asks, sheer shock ripping him out of his fugue. </p><p>"Yeah. One of our best, so, someone has to pay for that." Vasily Karpov nudges a little bit of the loose dirt into the hole with this toe to accentuate his point. </p><p>There's this tremor that starts in James' left hand, curious that it's the metal one that shakes first. It passes through his body a single time then he kneels down on the concrete-hard frozen ground. He couldn't have named the emotion behind the weird sensation if someone would have offered him a a trillion Rubles. </p><p>His ice cold eyes look up at his boss, the one who made him into what he was, the one who bought him all those years ago.</p><p>If the world was kinder the man could have been a father to James. But the world is not kind, the world is fucked and James is decidedly not a person anymore. He hasn't been a person since he was nine. </p><p>They made sure of that.</p><p>"Do you want me to do it myself?" James pulls his gun from the holster he wears under his coat. He puts it to his temple, and waits for the order. <br/>There is no emotion on James' face. Nothing behind his eyes.</p><p>Karpov just stands there, his expensive, shiny shoes are all that James can see. He's making him wait, trying one last time to crack James' ice. </p><p>"Give me your gun." Karpov wrenches it away and tucks it away inside his own jacket, leaving James kneeling, staring up at him. "Here. I need you better. I need you to focus and be what we paid for." There it was again. The fact that he was just property, not a man, not his own. <br/>Vasily thrust a handful of papers into his view. James took them and looked dumbly at the plane tickets and the passports. </p><p>"I don't understand." He states in a deadpan. </p><p>"We got too much money in <i>you</i>." Karpov says in almost an offhanded way. <br/>"Get up." </p><p>James stands and finally cracks both passports open. His blood runs cold when it's just one for him and one for Sashenka. </p><p>Tania is sobbing when she's dragged to the side of the hole.<br/>She's forced to her knees in almost the exact same spot James had knelt. Her lip is bleeding, split almost exactly along the line of her scar. </p><p>He looks at her, stares at her as she sobs and clings to his pants leg. </p><p>"I love you, take care of her, I love you. I'm sorry!" She repeats over and over again and he can't say a word. </p><p>He can't move or tell her he loves her too. He locks her in his glacial gaze and she goes quiet. </p><p>In those moments he wonders if she thinks he hates her, if she thinks he's already pushed her out of his heart. </p><p>"Take care of our daughter." She says quietly. </p><p>Vasily Karpov slides James' gun out of his jacket and the next thing James knows is what Tania's brains look like. He becomes acquainted with what they feel like flung against his face, what her blood and cerebrospinal fluid feels like splashing down his neck, over his whole body it seems, what it smells like what it <i>tastes</i> like. He watches almost like it's slow motion, her forehead explodes outward. Bone and brain and skin he had kissed so lovingly, flying out like sick confetti. <br/>He doesn't even flinch, not a twitch of his facial muscles, not a blink.<br/>He doesn't make a sound either. The body slumps of it's own accord over into the hole and Vasily Karpov hands him back his gun.<br/>___________________</p><p>James screams himself awake but he's not twisting in the thin blanket in his own apartment is he? No. There are arms suddenly around him. </p><p>"James! James it's okay!" Someone is shouting.</p><p>It takes a moment for James to orient himself but when he does he's clinging onto the person holding him so tight. </p><p>Sobs are torn from his throat, he tilts his head back and just lets himself fall apart. </p><p>This is why he hates sobriety. <i>This</i> is why he had to be numbed into blacking out every night. <br/>The nightmares. </p><p>They were so vivid, so vivid he can still smell the cold air of the Taiga. </p><p>It's Steve holding him, right? That's where he really is, isn't it? Steve's apartment. </p><p>"Steve." He chokes out. </p><p>"It's me, Buck. I'm here." Steve's voice is right at his ear and he hasn't let James go the entire time. James let's the nickname slide this time. <br/>"Wanna tell me about it?" </p><p>James shakes his head. He's no longer screaming and those horrible choking sobs have subsided, but he's still silently weeping. <br/>"My daughter's mother." Is all he manages and Steve seems to understand. </p><p>"Peggy died on a mission." Steve offers, trying to commiserate, trying to let James know he wasn't alone in his loss. "Sometimes I blame myself but it couldn't be helped, grenades are like that. Kinda like people, pull the pin and it's only a matter of time." </p><p>The kiss Steve presses into James' long hair is also meant to soothe and it does, it really does. Though James knows it should feel weird, knows the gesture is something Sarah used to do to soothe them as kids. Steve is not Sarah but he is close enough.  <br/>James burrows his head under Steve's chin. </p><p>"Did I wake you up?" He asks, voice still shaking. </p><p>"No. I don't sleep well most nights myself." Steve trails his hand up and down James' spine as he speaks. "I get em too. Nightmares." </p><p>James sighs against Steve's shoulder and pulls away, though he desperately wants the bodily contact.</p><p>All he can think about is his first weeks in America when he fell into so many pieces. Fortress of ice crumbling into so many shards. The shards cut and stabbed again and again. They were sharp enough that trying to scrape his walls back together left him soul-bloodied and broken, addicted. <br/>His walls were chemical, suddenly. He turned himself into a miasma that nothing could slog through. His soul was a swamp of drugs and repression. </p><p>Now those were gone too, the drugs and he was a raw nerve. He has to face everything he's ever done. </p><p>Tania was his fault. Sashenka was his fault and he'd not taken care of her. He'd not done the one thing Tania had asked of him before she was killed. </p><p>A fresh sob breaks free from his throat and he's suddenly so glad of Steve. He doesn't make the guilt go away but he keeps him from spiraling. "I'm so fucked up, Stevie." </p><p>Steve melts a little every time James calls him that, calls him his childhood nickname. "Shh, shh." Steve coos. "Do you want some coffee or anything?" </p><p>"I don't want you to let me go." James stated, as he held on tightly and stared at the back wall, not really seeing it. </p><p>"I won't." Steve promises. "I'm here." </p><p>Steve sits with him for a long while, just rubbing his back and letting him cry intermittently. </p><p>Eventually, just before sunrise, James falls asleep in Steve's arms. </p><p>When Steve goes to lay him down and go back to his own room, James grabs his arm gently. "Stay." He pleads, voice small and strained. "Like. . ." He licks his lips, unsure of himself. "Like when we were little?" </p><p>Steve's smile is sad and his eyes gain a  far away look for a moment. "Sure, Buck." He said and slid into bed with James. He nestled himself down, so that his head rests on James' ribs.  His size now doesn't really allow for it to be <i>exactly</i> the same but it feels close. </p><p>James' one hand came up and began to card through his soft, short hair. "Stevie, thank you." He breathes as he drifts back to sleep.</p><p>____________</p><p>A phone call wakes Steve up from the first deep sleep he's had in months. </p><p>He's got his face tucked into James' chest, and the other man is curled tightly around him, his solitary hand knotted in his hair</p><p>Steve can't move easily from the position but he does manage to extract himself without fully waking his bedmate. Though James does say something in Russian under his breath that sounds less than pleasant. </p><p>Steve sits up, slides out of bed and retrieves his phone from the console table by the front door. <br/>"Rogers." He says by way of greeting. </p><p>"Wake you up, Cap?" Nick Fury's voice holds a bit of amusement.</p><p>"Rough night." Steve says with a sigh. </p><p>"Well it's gonna be a rough afternoon for you too. We found the Castle kids." Fury's tone goes dead serious. "Gather up your Bratva lapdog and go to the location. Hill's sending you the address now."<br/>Steve sighs again, he's doing that more and more these days, and he casts a gaze over to the man asleep just a few feet away. </p><p>"We'll be there." He states and the line goes dead.</p>
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<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Shake Me All Out If I'm Wrong, For You</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Super graphic shit warning. More than usual. We got child murder, decomposing bodies, mentions of infanticide, pet killing etc.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Steve had to step away, the smell alone was enough to turn any normal person away. </p><p>James though, James crouched down on the ground careful not to disturb anything. The local cops had done a piss poor job insofar as preservation of evidence was concerned. There were footprints everywhere. </p><p>Body dump, nothing else, no evidence to be had other than tire tracks leaving the scene.<br/>
James begged to differ. There had to be something. </p><p>Steve stood a good thirty feet back with a handkerchief pressed to his face, watching as James laid down beside the two bodies. From where Steve stood he looked like he could be a man laying down beside his kids. Look at the stars children, can you find Ursa Major?<br/>
What about Orion's Belt? </p><p>Indeed James lay with them, sightless eyes turned heavenward, the eternal stare.  He was there for them when no body else could stare into the rotting face of a ten year old kid. When nobody else could stomach the sight of plastic dinosaur barrettes coated in viscera. </p><p>In James' eyes, wasn't this a kindness?</p><p>What he was doing, Steve couldn't fathom.<br/>
How he could stand it was beyond Steve.<br/>
The bodies had been there for <i>days</i>, roasting in the sun. </p><p>The amount of flies and other insects were bothersome enough on their own.</p><p>"Hey, Steve." James called after puzzling over the whole scene for a few long minutes. </p><p>"Yeah, James?" Steve can barely stand to come closer but he swallows hard and nuts up. </p><p>James is tracing the thick plastic covering the head of one of the bodies. "Do you have clearance to move em? There's a bullet casing in there." </p><p>The cops milling about come to a dead stop and stare at James.<br/>
The trouble was, no one could look at the purpled, rotting face of the Castle boy, Frank Jr.<br/>
James had no qualms about it. A rotting corpse was a rotting corpse was a rotting corpse.<br/>
See one, you've seen em all.<br/>
_______________</p><p>James fidgets with the empty sleeve of his Henley as they take another drive. This time they're going to pester the medical examiner as she works. The silence in the car is heavy, Steve's gripping the steering wheel just a little too hard. James notices all these things. Subtle little things that tell him something is wrong. </p><p>"You gonna say what's on your mind, Stevie?" He asks, keeping his eyes on his lap pointedly. </p><p>Steve's quiet for a long while more, the classic rock song playing on the radio ends and the DJ prattles on about some local breweries having a festival. Something James can easily tune out into white noise, static. </p><p>"How many dead kids have you seen?" Steve asks with a tense jaw. What he means is <i>"Have you killed any kids, James?"</i>. But who's gonna bring that up as casually as asking about pleasant Sunday weather? So Steve skirts it but the meaning is clear.<br/>
It hurts but it's expected. </p><p>"Seen? Enough, more than enough. Killed myself? I don't like to think about it." He sits like a stone in the passenger seat, unable to look at the man beside him. </p><p>"I'm sorry." Steve states, softly. </p><p>"I'm not proud of it. I'm not proud of any of it." James sighs. "I had an associate once, Alexei. . . They called him Наводнение, the Flood. He would drown babies and cats, women, you name it. He got called in for loose ends, to do the sick shit that had to be done." </p><p>Steve looks over at him, expectantly, as if he can't see the point of the anecdote.</p><p>"The point is I'm not like him, never will be like him." It's a lame excuse, comparing one evil to another. Like he's a good person just because he's not done <i>quite</i> as bad as someone else. Why even bring up Alexei when he could have went for the gusto and said he was a saint compared to Adolf Hitler? "Ah, fuck it, Steve. I can't defend myself against something so vile." He hisses out between clenched teeth. "It was a few teenagers!"</p><p>"A few?" Steve knows it's fueling something dangerous building in James. </p><p>"Seven teenagers, three girls, four boys. The girls all had brown hair, one had braces, one cried for her mother who I had <i>just</i> gunned down in the hallway, one asked me my goddamn name." James' voice is rising in volume and heat, his hand is shaking as he holds a death grip on his knee. "One of the boys looked like a version of you as a teenager I imagined in my own head. One was a ginger with freckles and he cried, they all goddamn cried. I remember every detail about everything. Wanna hear about the first person I killed? Because I can still feel his blood on my hands. Do you know how old I was? Ten. Ten goddamn years old. On my birthday." </p><p>James denies firmly that he's crying. Steve has pulled the car over and is staring. Just. Staring. James is suddenly locked in a bright blue gaze that makes his heart simultaneously swoop and drop into his seat. </p><p>"Bucky." </p><p>"Right, I forgot about him, I killed him when I was nine." James states flatly. </p><p>"Bucky. . . I. . ." Steve is faced with horror for the first time. Real true horror. </p><p>"Are you going to try to make excuses for me, like you've been doing or admit I'm a monster?" James turns in his seat, looking fully at Steve. </p><p> </p><p>"T-they made you do it." Steve can't hide the tremor in his voice. </p><p>"But I did it." James says, reaching out and making Steve look at him by way of a hand on his chin. "I could have chosen to die instead of kill at any time."</p><p>Steve doesn't think about what he does next, he just turns his face into James' hand and kisses his palm.<br/>
He feels James stiffen, feels his body wind up like a spring. He gets this look in his eyes like a wild animal but it's mingled with confusion. </p><p>"James. You need therapy. You need professional help and I'm saying that because I . . . I care about you." Steve cradled James' hand to his cheek, not letting him pull it away. </p><p>"So you think I'm crazy? That's it?" The half choked sound of his voice is anything but the accusatory bark he'd intended. </p><p>"No! No, James. I think you've got so much trauma, you've seen so much, been through so much. It's a miracle you're sitting in this shitty little Volvo with me." Steve gets a text but ignores it in favor of unbuckling his seatbelt. "Come stretch your legs with me." He suggests, opening his car door. </p><p>Steve's already walking around the front of the car by the time James wrestles himself out of the seatbelt. </p><p>Instead of pacing around like Steve was currently doing, Bucky slumps against the hood of the car. He keeps his head down and and his shoulders up, looking guilty for lack of a better word. </p><p>Steve was speaking, calming words, wether to himself or to James. . . James can't tell, he barely listens over the screaming voices in his head that tell him to go running back to Tony or even The Bratva. That he's turning this into a shitshow. He's tainting Steve's life with a horrible knowledge; His childhood friend is a monster. </p><p>"Bucky are you listening to me?" Steve asks, and when did he get so close?</p><p>"Stevie, we've talked about that name" James whined. "I can't be him anymore. He was a good kid."</p><p>"Hey. . ." Steve lifted his chin up locking him in his wounded blue gaze. "You're still good. You're still you, Bu--- James." Steve slid the pad of his thumb along the slight cleft of James' chin. </p><p>"I don't wanna be him. I want him to be little and safe in bed with his secondhand teddy bear." James stated softly, catching Steve's wrist, but not holding too tightly. The grip is more to ground himself than anything.<br/>
Steve pulls him in closer and James breaks down right there on the roadside. "Why did they do this to me, Steve? How does this happen to people?" He chokes out in a harsh whisper. </p><p>"You can still be more than what they did to you. That's good though, that you can say <i>they</i> did it to you, acknowledge the lack of a choice you had." Steve pets James' hair slowly, soothingly and James melts against the man. </p><p>"I'm ruined. I don't know how to do anything else." </p><p>Steve pulled James back a bit from himself, hands sliding out of his hair and to the sides of his face.. "You realize you <i>are</i> doing something else, right? With me. This case. You've got such a good eye, you could be something with this agency."<br/>
James looks uncertain for a minute but then closes his eyes and nods, tears slipping from beneath his closed lids. </p><p>Steve leans in without thinking and kisses them away. James makes a soft sound half between a sob and a whimper. Steve's thumbs follow his lips, swiping over damp cheekbones. </p><p>James parts his lips to say something else but the words are kissed off of them. For a few brief moments, James leans into it, lets Steve kiss him. His hand knots into Steve's old man jacket.<br/>
It's frantic after a beat, a desperate collision of lips and tongue and teeth. </p><p>Soon though, too soon, James comes to his senses and pushes Steve back. "Please no. Please. . . Stop. Please." There's a panic in James' voice that he just doesn't want to know the exact source of but it almost sounds like James doesn't believe Steve <i>will</i> stop.<br/>
"Just let me have you like we used to be? Not this. . . I, I can't, Stevie." James continues.<br/>
They're both still sharing the same air, lips just a scant inch apart. They're both breathing heavily, flushed  and unbalanced. </p><p>"I, I wasn't thinking, sorry James." Steve looks so much like he wants to lean back in and claim James' lips. "Sorry." He steps back and clears his throat. The other man quickly turns back to the car door and gets back inside. He watches the halting way Steve goes back to his own side of the car and starts the engine. </p><p>The ride is silent the rest of the way to the medical examiner. James can't get the feeling of Steve's lips off his mind.<br/>
He catches himself absently touching his own and crams his hand into his pocket. He knows he has to get these thoughts out of his head, the thought of how <i>right</i> it felt for Steve to touch him like that. That wasn't territory he could delve into. It went against his one cardinal rule, not to be loved or to love.<br/>
He could suppress it, he could make Steve get rid of such stupid thoughts too. All he had to do was be charming and that wouldn't be hard. All he had to do was break Steve's heart, or at least the illusion of James being anything but a scoundrel.</p><p>___________________</p><p>Steve didn't know what the hell he was thinking. What he did was just inappropriate, taking advantage of James being so emotional. Jesus Steve! </p><p>He felt the steering wheel bend under his grip and made himself loosen his hands on it. He stole a glance at James and he could have sworn he saw the man tracing his fingers over his lips. A little hope sparked in his chest and he tamped it down.  </p><p>He really felt like shit. Luckily the awkward, heaviness of the car ride was coming to an end. </p><p>"Gimme a dollar?" James asks as they pull into the parking lot. </p><p>"There's change in the glove---" </p><p>James drops the glove compartment open, swipes up a handful of coins and is out of the car before it stops. </p><p>"Compartment." Steve finishes with a sigh.</p><p>He watches James assault the old vending machine outside the bland government building that houses the Medical Examiner's office.<br/>
He watches as James seems at a loss for how to crack open the can of grape soda he buys. It sends a stab of something through Steve. . . Not pity, just, he wishes he could help him. </p><p>He cringes when the other man opens the can with his teeth. </p><p>Steve kills the engine and joins James on the sidewalk.<br/>
"Lead the way, Captain." James says, sipping his soda. </p><p>The hallway they go down is dim, and echoy, the lights are those disgusting florescent things that give Steve a headache.<br/>
He knocks on the Medical Examiner's door and is buzzed in.<br/>
Immediately the stench of embalming chemicals hits his nostrils. He's been in countless offices just like this, but the smell still hits the same. </p><p>James seems unbothered by it, he goes in and flops onto one of the plastic chairs while Steve introduces them to the Examiner.<br/>
She's surprisingly around their age, slight build, with a shapely face, pretty for all intents and purposes. </p><p>She suggests to the pair after a pleasant introduction, that they go view the bodies, now that she has them out on her tables. </p><p>Steve goes a little green around the gills and James steps up to bat. "Sit it out, Stevie, I can manage, I'll even take notes." </p><p>Steve feels so relieved he could cry. "Yeah. . . Yes, thank you James." He breathes not hiding his relief in the least. He sits on a little vinyl covered sofa and takes out his phone.<br/>
______________</p><p>"So, how did you get into this racket?" James asks as he follows Marie--as she introduced herself--down a short corridor. </p><p>"Watched too many episodes of CSI: Miami as a kid." She states with a laugh. "Where is that accent from?" </p><p>"All over really. Russia mostly."<br/>
They pass into the chilled morgue and Marie gestures to the bodies hidden under white sheets. </p><p>"Russia! That's interesting!" She picks up her clipboard and leafs through the papers on it. </p><p>"Cause of death?" He asks, circling the tables once. </p><p>"Gunshot wound for the boy, asphyxiation for the girl." Marie shakes her head and does the whole my-job-doesnt-really-bother-me-as-much-as-I-think-is-socially-acceptable-so-I-must-overcompensate-with-fake-sorrow spiel. "It's so sad." She concludes to which James shrugs.</p><p>"It's okay." He breathes, just a little lower than was necessary. "I understand, you can relax, it doesn't bother me either. The bodies." </p><p>She gets this look on her face that seems like Someone just dropped a pail of cold water over her head, like she'd been found with her hand in the cookie jar.<br/>
"I. . ."</p><p>"I'm serious." James pulls the sheet off the closest body and peers at it. The Castle Girl is more purple than her brother had been, the body was face down at the site and now he could see the ligature marks around her neck.</p><p>"That's, that's. . . Refreshing, Mr, uh? I don't remember what your partner said your name was." She flushes pink and gives him a sheepish smile. </p><p>"It's James, uh Barnes." He has no idea why he says that fucking name but it's out of his mouth before he cab stop it. </p><p>"Right, Mr Barnes." Maria seems to deflate a little, settling into herself and her usual routine when she didn't have visitors. "So, I've injected both bodies with formalin. And checked for prints, to tell you the truth, I've got nothin. The cops took the casing and the plastic they were wrapped in." She's debating saying something more to him, James can tell. </p><p>"You have some thoughts?" He asks, flipping through the little pocket sized notepad, Steve had given him, with his thumb. </p><p>"I uh, well. . . Come to my office, Mr Barnes." She looks over her shoulder as she leads him out if the morgue and into her office across the narrow hall. </p><p>Once they're inside she heaves a huge sigh. "I've been here a long time. Some of those cops. . . I have no clue where they're from." She nervously fidgets with her hair, twisting a pale blonde strand around her finger. "This is rural New York, I know all the local brass, all the guys on the force. . . Something's weird." </p><p>James nods and writes it all down in tiny, neat letters, using the desk as a prop. </p><p>"You probably think I'm crazy." She laughs softly, shaking her head. </p><p>"There are couple things I'd describe you as, and crazy ain't one of em." He shoots her a smile and she blushes.</p><p>"Y-yeah?" </p><p>"Mhm, this information may prove invaluable to us, thank you for being observant." He enters her space and tucks her hair behind her ear. </p><p>_______________</p><p>Steve didn't know he'd fallen asleep until he found himself jerking awake. He checked his watch and found that almost an hour had passed. Surely it couldn't have taken that long? </p><p>He tentatively walked to the corridor he'd watched the medical examiner and James disappear down. </p><p>There was a weird rhythmic sound coming from somewhere, it sounded like metal on concrete. </p><p>There were a number of things Steve expected upon swinging the door to the medical Examiner's office open. A criminal holding them at gunpoint, a Zombie, anything but the truth.</p><p>Even one armed, James was capable, it seemed. </p><p>He and Maria, fucking like frenzied teens. The latter was laid back on the desk with her legs wrapped around James' waist, all that remained of her stockings were tatters. James was naked from the waist up and his jeans were around his thighs. </p><p>"Goddamn you're so fucking tight." James was growling through his teeth. </p><p>Steve shut the door so fast he didn't care it made a sound.</p><p>James paused to listen to his rapidly retreating footsteps. Satisfied, he returned to the task at hand.<br/>
______________</p><p>Steve didn't stop at the reception area, he went straight to the car and flung himself into the seat. His heart was pounding in his ears.<br/>
So it was Steve after all that was so off putting for James? God, had he read the weird flirty words wrong? James was straight, that made sense. Didn't it? </p><p>Oh fuck, Steve what have you done? </p><p>Gotten your heart broken by your own idiocy is what. He answered himself. </p><p>When James flopped into the passenger seat some thirty minutes later he's disheveled and smells like sex. "Something's up with the cops. Maria says there's some strangers posing as locals."</p><p>Maria was it? </p><p>"Yeah? I'll let Fury know. Our job right now is collecting and compiling evidence." Steve's amazed that he can keep his voice even. </p><p>"Good. Food? I'm starving." James reclined the seat and kicked his feet up onto the dash. </p><p>"You can eat after being around dead bodies all day?" Steve asks trying to keep up this air of nonchalance. </p><p>"Yup, my line of work, remember?" </p><p>Steve shakes his head fondly and starts the car. </p><p>"I once had to live with a dead body for a week, I ever tell you that, Stevie?"<br/>
James is speaking more than usual, and his tone is too chipper to be genuine, even if the lay was amazing. </p><p>"I don't think I'd want to know." He pulls out of the parking space and steers the car onto the road. </p><p>"Guess not." James shrugged and fucked around with the radio. The truth was, he was actually feeling guilty. For what? He couldn't exactly name. Maybe it was the utter anguish in those blue puppy eyes in the seat beside him.  </p><p>"Diner or fast food?" Steve asks him after a few minutes of driving. </p><p>"Whatever. First thing you pass." He can't bring himself to look up from his lap. "Or whatever is near the motel." </p><p>They end up at a little 24 hour diner ran by an angry looking man who looked Mediterranean, if James could hazard a guess.  There was only one waitress and she was friendly enough. Flirted more than anything.<br/>
With Steve. </p><p>They ordered their food, James picked at his club sandwich and fries. "So the case." He began haltingly. "Kinda gutting isn't it? Sucks, such little kids." </p><p>Steve nods at his salad, pushing a calamata olive around with his fork. </p><p>"Uh, you okay over there, Punk?" James tries getting something out of Steve who clammed up halfway through the drive.</p><p>"You uh, fucked the Medical Examiner." He half whispers. </p><p>James chokes on the sip of the soda he was just taking. He knew Steve saw but he didn't expect him to bring it up. "Stevie-- I--!"</p><p>"No, no! No. . ." Steve raked his hands back through his hair. "I'm not scolding I'm just saying I'm sorry. I should have realized you have no interest in me. Men at all really, I guess. . . I guess I got confused because of a few things. God I'm such a fucking idiot. You're not just an antisocial asshole it's <i>me</i> you don't like." </p><p>James sits silently for a moment. "You're alright, Steve. You'll find somebody." He knows he's jamming the nail deeper into the lid of the coffin. He doesn't deny what Steve says. He knows how to be cold.<br/>
"I was thinking, Barton's place might be better once we get back to the city." </p><p>Steve nods, standing and tossing a handful of crumpled bills on the table, more than enough to cover their tab. "Probably for the best." He agrees and marches out into the slight rain that has just started to fall. </p><p>James stares after him for a long while before he follows to the tiny, cramped car.<br/>
It's a long drive in tense silence to a tiny, cramped motel room, paid for by S.H.I.E.L.D. </p><p>There's surprisingly two single beds in the space as well as a TV but it wouldn't be turned on because the luxury of a remote was an extra fee. Weird. </p><p>They don't speak as they prepare for bed. They move around one another opposite ends of magnets. Steve brushes his teeth, showers and slips into stripey pajamas that would look more at home in an issue of Better Homes And Gardens from 1945. </p><p>James showers and looks at the marks left by Maria. He locked the fact that he had to think about Steve's kissing him to get it up for her, deep in the cobwebby back corner of his heart. It's not something he could ever acknowledge, lest something inside him break. </p><p>He returns to the room and Steve appears to have fallen directly to sleep. He sighs and climbs into his own creaky bed.<br/>
Just as he's wiggling down seeking the comfort of sleep he gets a text. </p><p>"Busy?" It says and be knows the Number. </p><p>"Out of town. Be back tomorrow." He responds.</p><p>"I was thinking about you." Is the reply he gets, followed quickly by "remember the favor you owe? Time to pay up." </p><p>James' heart rate spiked but he just texted Piotr a thumbs up emoji accompanied by "I'll text you when I'm back." He flops back into bed and sighs, fisting his hands in his damp hair. He couldn't get out of it. </p><p>He wants more than anything to talk about this with Steve but he's broken that into a million little pieces hasn't he? Yeah, James, just fuck up every good thing. And he had broken Steve's heart hadn't he?<br/>
Guiltily he gets up and Shakes Steve awake. </p><p>"Hnn? What? What's up?" Steve asks groggily, as James slips into the too-small bed beside him. </p><p>"I'm sorry." He whispers. "I don't wanna go to Barton's. I'm just scared of you." </p><p>"Of? Of me?!" Steve wakes up a little more, looks down at James so confused. </p><p>"I'm afraid if I let you be close to me and vice versa . . . This dark shit that looms over my life will swallow you up too." James admits softly. "I don't wanna lose you, Stevie. Not again."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Is The Devil So Bad If He Cries In His Sleep?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Dubious consent and stuff in this chapter.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The ride home is silent but not as tense as it could be. </p><p>There were implications in what James had done yesterday, the way he'd strayed from his own set personal path. He'd done it all perfectly, pushed Rogers away (again), made it clear he didn't want anything to do with him. . . If he'd have left it alone he could have just walked away, went to stay with Barton or wherever else he could, but, he fucked it up. </p><p>All Steve had to do was show him a little humanity and James' resolve vanished like a breath. Goddamn him for being so open and vulnerable with his feelings all the time. Damn him for being so open <i>to James.</i> </p><p>Presently, James glanced over at the man driving the shitty little Volvo, his one hand fiddling with the radio, the other on the wheel. James got the distinct feeling that the wrong person could shred him up in some kind of irreparable way, given the chance. James also got the feeling that, that person could be himself. <br/>He was breaking his rules with Steve, getting attached. There was enough collateral damage in his life without a person like <i>Steve Rogers</i> worming his way into it. </p><p>Their living situation seemed to be incongruent to maintaining a distance without being an utter asshole to the man.<br/>And yeah, it was fucked up, to James at least, but he didn't exactly want to be an asshole to Steve. Not that he hadn't already been. Not that Steve hadn't already forgiven him too easily. Yeah, James could shred this man to pieces from the inside out. </p><p>"Don't you have like, a CD or an AUX cord or something?" James finally broke the silence and tore his eyes off the news feed on his phone he'd been scrolling through without reading.<br/>Steve sheepishly lowered his hand from the radio dial. "Didn't think to bring anything like that." <br/>James rolled his eyes and reached for the knob himself. He settled on a station playing <i>"Wouldn't It Be Nice"</i> by the Beach Boys. </p><p>"There." He said, returning to his news feed. </p><p>Steve smiled fondly at the choice, looking at James in a secretly affectionate kind of way while the man has his eyes locked in his phone screen. </p><p>"D-do you want to maybe order Chinese and get a movie?" Steve chanced a little while later. </p><p>"You don't own a TV, Steven." James replied, not looking up from his phone. </p><p>That was true, and maybe it was something that needed to change, like a lot of things in his life needed to change. Actually getting a life for one. </p><p>"I uh, have a laptop though." </p><p>"Mh." James tapped on his messages and flicked through the ones from Piotr. "I actually have a thing tonight. Unless this little arrangement is more like being under arrest than you're letting on? Imprison the rat so nicely that it doesn't know it's in a cage." </p><p>"You're not in prison, James." Steve replied, unable to keep from sounding wounded. "You can come and go as you please." </p><p>"I'm not trying to sound. . . Ungrateful." James attempted while keeping the mantra of; <i>Don't be an asshole, don't be an asshole, don't be a fucking asshole.</i> repeating in his head. <br/>"Still order Chinese. I like most everything." </p><p>"Do you need me to drop you off anywhere?" Steve still had a world weary slump to his usually ramrod straight posture. </p><p>"Nah. I'll walk from yours." He had the urge to reach out to the man, pat him or something but he couldn't get his stubborn  self to do it. </p><p>Sighing he lets his thumb tap on Piotr's messages. "Back in town in an hour." He sends to the giant Russian. </p><p>-----------</p><p>So, as it turned out, Steve's apartment was indeed only a couple of blocks from the coffee shop James had ran into him at . . . How long ago was it? Months? </p><p>James made the excuse that that's where he was going to meet an old friend, Steve had given him a skeptical look as he swooped his long hair up into a loose bun at the base of his neck. </p><p>He'd taken a shower, struggled into a nice shirt without unbuttoning the front of it and shaved. He could at least try to look a little bit professional.<br/>He ignored the way Steve looked at him with an obvious mix of longing and despair. </p><p>Now he stood actually in the coffee shop, sipping a huge coffee that, if he was being honest with himself, was closer to chocolate milk than actual coffee. As he stood, waiting for the car Piotr had promised to arrive he wondered what the fuck the man thought he could do for him. </p><p>Unless he had to knife someone in an alleyway, he wasn't much good with one hand. </p><p>He was navigating his purple plastic straw around little pink sprinkles that were slowly bleeding into the whipped cream when someone shouted at him. </p><p>"Oi! I am your Uber! James!" A man with a very thick Russian accent and very few teeth in the front waved to him from the door. <br/>A spike of anger shot through him but he tamped it down. </p><p>Couldn't the man be more discreet? <br/>With a sigh he followed him to the car parked illegally and with one front tire up on the curb. </p><p>James made sure to double check the name of the cab company to make sure he was getting into one of Piotr's cars. <br/>With a roll of his eyes he eventually plopped into the back seat. It smelled strongly of cigars and the radio screamed to life as soon as the ignition turned over. </p><p>The man drove like a bat out of hell and it led James to hang on for dear life. His eyes meanwhile scanned for a gun case, a folder, anything to tell him his mission. </p><p>It became evident there was nothing for him in the car. "Where are we going?" James asked, raising his voice over the Russian rap that blared from the speakers. </p><p>"Boss' house!" The driver replied, looking over his shoulder at James even as he wove through traffic. </p><p>James didn't like that, didn't like that there were unknown variables at play. He should have just called Piotr himself and asked about the job. <br/>He made a point of being annoyingly loud finishing his coffee off, sucking up every last bit of cream with his straw. </p><p>It took an hour to get to Piotr's residence-- even with the way the other man was driving. It was a private house, just enough in the suburbs that it was quiet but close enough to the city proper that one could still get decent delivery. </p><p>The driver sped off without a passing word once James had climbed out of the back of the cab. </p><p>With a bracing breath, James went up the walk almost having to sidestep the large plants that lined the cement walkway. </p><p>Piotr's house was. . . Nice, mid-century modern with a dash of Eclecticism. No doubt from a renovation. It was all glass and warm wood and strategic lighting. It somehow looked both inviting and clinical- business-like from the outside. </p><p>He looked down at the empty cup in his hand and didn't think twice about tossing it into the bushes before he rang the doorbell. </p><p>He was able to watch the huge Russian come to the door via the floor to ceiling windows that made up the most of the front of the house. <br/>Piotr was wearing comfortable clothes, slacks and a pristine white undershirt. He had a gold chain on as usual and slippers.</p><p>He opened the door and looked briefly at James' lack of an arm. "Tony has your arm over his mantelpiece, you know."</p><p>James remained stoic, only glancing down at his left shoulder. "Doesn't slow me down." He stated coolly. "What's the job?"</p><p>"Hmh." Piotr grunted, fisting the front of James' shirt and hauling him inside. James didn't have the time to compose himself, to prepare for being so roughly pulled inside by the big man. He went practically bonelessly, manhandled easily by the bigger man. <br/>Piotr slammed the door and slid the bolt home, locking it. When he pushed James back against the thick wood of said door, the smaller man yelped. That yelp allowed for Piotr's tongue to invade his mouth. <br/>Fuck. <br/>This was. <br/>This was. . . Not what James anticipated.</p><p>"What?" He gasped when he was able to pull away. </p><p>"You're paying up your favor, Звезда моя." Piotr pulled James from the entry way and guided him into a back bedroom-- not the master suite, James could tell by it's lack of personal items, the hotel-like feeling. </p><p>Piotr guided him down onto the bed and began unbuttoning his shirt. "Paying up?!" He wailed as he finally came to his senses enough to speak. </p><p>"You're out of the wetwork game." Piotr murmured, shucking James of his clothes like an ear of corn. "Everybody knows." </p><p>James covered himself as best as he could while his brain tried to catch up to the situation. It took a while for his brain and body to synch up, took a while for him to register lips and fingers exploring him. The big Russian took his time sucking bright marks out on James' skin, all along his neck and onto his chest.</p><p>He was powerless to stop his body's natural reaction to the attention. He grasped at Piotr's face as his lips closed over one of James' nipples a cry working its way free of James' mouth. "Piotr!" He gasped. "Is the debt done after this?" </p><p>"Paid in full." The huge Russian confirmed, lips brushing softly against James' nipple<br/> as he spoke. <br/>The shame was already clawing it's way out of James' soul, making him feel cheap and dirty. "Okay." He whispered as he let himself uncurl fully at last. <br/>James disassociated himself from his body, only feeling what Piotr made him feel. <br/>He vaguely registered the other man tying his one arm to the bedpost with something rough. <br/>There are suddenly fingers inside him. And Piotr whispers "scream all you need to, we're right at home here." <br/>He does not scream at this initial intrusion. He does, however, moan sharply as the other man's huge fingers press insistently against his prostate. It makes his moatly flaccid dick twitch.  His bare thighs spasm with each motion, threatening to close but he forces himself into a vulnerable position, to accommodate. </p><p>He closes his eyes to everything and lets the other man take what he wants. There's some part of his brain that worries about Poitr not giving him a lecture of some kind, not pointing him down some path to a better lifestyle. Maybe the man thinks he's a lost cause now, he's already debased himself once with him. </p><p>Now he's decommissioned from his life's purpose, one armed, helpless, vulnerable. </p><p>A spike of panic jolts through him. People who aren't of use to the Bratva anymore but aren't slated for execution usually end up in the exact position he's in right now. How many times had some associate's wife or girlfriend end up in a Bratva brothel after their partner had been killed? How many Honeypot agents had ended up there as well after getting a recognizable scar someplace or age finally caught up?</p><p>Was that where he was headed? Would Tony want to turn him out? </p><p>His brain further short-circuits as an orgasm sneaks up on him. Cum drools out of his half hard dick, over his abdomen, between the join of his thigh. There's. . . A lot of it and it continues as Piotr's thick fingers milk his prostate. He's gasping with overstimulation, and painfully present by the time the fingers are removed from his hole.<br/>James' legs go to curl to his body but strong hands keep them from doing so.  </p><p>He was panting and his skin slick with sweat. "Please." He begged, for what exactly he couldn't articulate, sobbing softly when Piotr's fingers probed back into him. "Please, Piotr." </p><p>"Шшш, у меня есть ты." The other man cooed as he articulated James' legs the way he wanted them. <br/>James weakly tugged at the bonds on his wrist. <br/>When Piotr had him laying flat on his face, unable to do more than turn his head to keep from smothering in the sheets, he tried to disassociate again. He tried to float away from his body. </p><p>Thick fingers traced over his hole, making his while body twitch like a jumpy horse. </p><p>A thick finger slid in easily now, due to the earlier activities. He whimpered weakly when it pressed directly on his spot again. It was like an epicenter for overstimulation, sending lightning through his body. It seemed like just as he was able to get comfortable and just <i>let it happen</i> some new sensation would pull him back to full lucidity. He craved drugs at that moment or alcohol, to dull his senses, and the realization that he hadn't wanted either of those things since he'd been hanging around Steve made him want them more.</p><p>"I want to take my time with you. Having you before. . . Was unexpected." Piotr leaned up and kissed along James' spine as he spoke. "I didn't get to really enjoy what you were offering." <br/>He wanted to say something in response, wanted to tell him, he hadn't really offered this second time, that he'd had this imposed on him because of the debt. That he'd rather be stabbing some unfortunate than be here. But words failed him, a swirl of shame and regret festered in him.</p><p>There's no build up for his second orgasm, but it barrels through him, mercilessly, leaving him gasping into the sheets. Piotr milks him for everything he has, not stopping his fingers from putting insistent pressure on his spot til he was keening in pain. <br/>When Piotr finally withdrew his fingers, James heard the snick of a bottle of lube being opened. He heard the wet sound of Piotr slicking himself up then the cold substance was drizzled over his hole. Goosebumps broke out over his skin and he shifted restlessly. "C-come on." He pleaded weakly, trying to entice by raising his ass as much as his shaking body would let him. </p><p>"Cute." Piotr laughed and flipped him over so easily, like he was as insubstantial as a cloud. Piotr's lube-slick hand trailed over the column of his throat and down his torso, before coming back up to lightly squeeze at James' throat again. "I remember what you like." He purred, squeezing a little harder. James' cock gives a half hearted twitch of interest. </p><p>With a little chuckle, Piotr positions himself, settling between James' sticky thighs. His huge, battering ram cock, hard and slick from lube and leaking from the tip, brushing against James. He took himself on hand and guided the blunt head to James' pink hole. </p><p>James' world suddenly narrowed down to the feeling of being impaled on the other's too-thick cock.</p><p>He screams, but it's detached somehow, like he's hearing himself at a distance. <br/>He screams inside his head as well: <i>"you've taken it before, you've taken it before, you've taken it before!"</i> on a loop. </p><p>He rips, he knows he does, Piotr clicks his tongue and adds more lube. The glide is easier after that but pain still spears through him with every motion. </p><p>It feels like hours before Piotr is emptying his balls into him, snapping his hips, hand tight around James' throat. </p><p>Piotr stays inside him even as he unties James' wrist and settles down in bed. "I'll give you a thousand dollars to stay the night." He whispers against James' ear. </p><p>James cringes, so yeah, that was how it was eh? "You're better than this Piotr." He manages to whisper in a deadpan as his eyes stare unblinkingly and wide at the stained sheets beside him. </p><p>"Are <i>you?</i>" The other man's cock finally slips free and James' hole aches in its wake, clenching around nothing. </p><p>His heart sinks, settling somewhere below his bellybutton. He blinks back tears. "Cash." He croaks out, voice cracking. <br/>Piotr makes no effort to clean up, letting James lay with fluids leaking from his ass and his own sticky mess drying on his stomach and thighs. He pulls the sheet up over them both and turns out the light. </p><p>James doesn't sleep. He stares out into the darkness, one arm curled close to his body. <br/>Piotr gets his thousand dollars worth though. James doesn't make a sound when he pushes back into his swollen ass sometime in the night. He bites his lip til it bleeds, dripping down his chin, fuck the pillow he's laying on, let it stain. </p><p>Eventually sleep does take over James' body and he awakes clean, smelling like Piotr's shampoo. He doesn't remember being moved it cleaned up but even the sheets are changed. </p><p>There's a plate of sliced fruit and cheese on the bedside table and a stack of cash. </p><p>He takes a moment to just stare at the plate. With a huff of indignation he grabs the cash and forces himself out of bed. </p><p>His knee hits the floor immediately and he has to struggle to not fall entirely flat. "Oh fuck. <i>Fuck</i>" he swears as pain rips through his body. This time he doesn't have an infallible metal arm to steady himself and has to practically drag himself to his clothes, Piotr had folded on a chair close by. </p><p>Thirty odd minutes later he was limping through the kitchen, looking for alcohol. Coming up empty he searched the living room and once again, his search was fruitless. </p><p>He did, however, find a note laying on the console table beside the front door. </p><p>In script too comically delicate for Piotr's huge hands, was written: </p><p>
  <i>James, <br/>Press the green button beside the door and it'll connect you to Dimitri, the driver. He will take you anywhere you need to go.<br/>-Piotr</i>
</p><p>James sighed and inspected the keypad beside the front door. There were several buttons along with the standard numerical pad. He pressed the green one hesitantly and almost jumped when a voice sounded over some hidden speaker. </p><p>"Да?" Said the disembodied voice. "You need the car?"</p><p>"I. . . Uh yeah?" James replied, stepping back slightly, head upturned, not knowing exactly where he should be speaking toward. </p><p>"Right, give me five minute. I'm finishing my sandwich." </p><p>The little light on the green button went out and James sighed, stepping back from it. </p><p>There was a little oval mirror above the console table and he paused a moment to assess himself. He looked like he'd gone a few rounds with Piotr instead of just having fucked him. His lip was split and bruised black from where he himself had bitten it and he had a perfect handprint and several deep purple and red marks on his neck. <br/>The horn blowing outside startled him out of his thoughts and he wasted no time limping out the door. </p><p>He was surprised that it seemed to still be quite early in the morning. <br/>He was likewise surprised to find an actual car and not a cab, sleek black and expensive. He gingerly got in and laid flat on his face on the big back seat. <br/>"Where to beauty-ful?" The driver asked, his mouth full, there was nothing condescending in his loud, cheerful voice. Apparently finishing his sandwich meant starting another one. James could smell onion and pastrami. </p><p>"I uh. . ."he hesitated for a moment, contemplating where he should go. His apartment was a no and he didn't even know <i>where</i> Natasha lived. Steve's seemed like the only option, though he couldn't give him Steve's address. The next best thing was the coffee shop by Steve's place. He hated to think of the walk back to the apartment but it was what he had to do. <br/>________</p><p>James picked the lock on Steve's door, it was a good lock insofar as his experience with locks was concerned. He was careful, quiet, tried not to let the tools scratch the shiny metal. It was difficult because he had to use his mouth for part of it. For once he was grateful that those that had trained him made him learn to do this with one arm. </p><p>The apartment was darkened, no lights were on and James did not disturb that. <br/>Something tugged at his heart seeing half full containers of Chinese food sitting on the coffee table. The bed wasn't pulled out anymore and he soon discovered that the lump on one end of the sofa was in fact Steve, asleep. There was Steve's laptop on the couch beside him, open, screen dark. </p><p>When James went to move the device, Steve shifted, breathing changing from the slow even rhythm of sleep, to wakefulness. </p><p>"James?" He asked groggily, wrestling his arms free of the blanket. </p><p>"Hi." Was all James could reply, looking at Steve's sleepy face, his tousled hair. </p><p>"I was worried." Steve groaned, stretching his back. </p><p>"I'm sorry." And James found he <i>was</i> sorry.  "I'm alright. . . Are you?" </p><p>"Better now." The relief was evident on his face. He wondered how long Steve had slept, how long he'd waited up. </p><p>"You should go to bed." James suggested, trying to distribute his weight so his ass and, well, most of the rest of his body, didn't hurt so badly. He was failing and all he wanted to do was fall into the couch and not exist for a while.</p><p>Steve must have noticed something amiss, either in his posture or his facial expression. "What's wrong, James?" He asked, sitting up more properly. "What happened?" </p><p>There was a sob out of his mouth before he could even register it was going to happen.  </p><p>Steve makes to stand up but James holds his hand out, trying to stop him. "No, no it's fine, I'm fine." He assured him, trying to reign his voice in. "Go to bed and <br/> . . . And we'll do whatever you want after, fuck I'll <i>go</i> to a fucking movie with you I just. . . I need a little space."</p><p>Steve stood slowly, non threateningly. "You know, whatever it is, you don't have to go it alone, Buck." </p><p>"Steve, <i>please</i>" James wailed, throwing himself face down into the spot Steve vacated. "I did this to myself." </p><p>Steve knelt down, stubborn bastard, and smoothed his hand through James' hair. "I'm here if you need me." <br/>James hated admitting to himself how good Steve's hand felt on his head, hated worse admitting he didn't want it to stop gently petting him. </p><p>"In my pocket." He muttered softly. "Right one." Obviously. </p><p>"Are you telling me to get something from your pocket?" Steve asked, to be sure.</p><p>"Yes." <br/>Only then did Steve move to slip his hand into the indicated pocket. </p><p>Steve gasped at the bundle of bills he withdrew. "James?" He asked a million questions with one word. What did you <i>do</i>? Where did this come from? </p><p>"I owed a debt, but he wanted more than that." James' voice sounds flat in his own ears, distant. He's shaking and he just doesn't know how to stop it. </p><p>"Can I touch you? Your hair only, nowhere else." <br/>The request for consent made something drop inside him also made him feel strangely safe. </p><p>"Yes, please." He found himself saying and Steve's fingers slid back into his hair, gently. </p><p>"Are you hurt anywhere?" Steve asks after a moment of silence, to which James nods. </p><p>"Can I help? Can I see?" </p><p>James is silent for a long time, thoughts making a racetrack of his mind. "I'm not a whore, Steve. I'm not. I don't w- I don't <i>want</i> to be property-- I. . ." He's hysterical now, crying into the blanket that still held onto the warmth of Steve. </p><p>"Shh, shh, it's alright, James. It's okay, you're not anything you don't consent to be." His hand never strays from James' head and it's, it's grounding.</p><p>"I smell like him." He choked out. </p><p>"That's an easy fix if you let me help. We can do whatever it takes to make you feel better." </p><p>"I don't wanna move, it hurts." Came the whimpering cry from a man who once walked off a point blank GSW to his chest. He'd walked back to the rendezvous point with a lung full of blood. </p><p>"Want me to get some ice? Anything?" </p><p>"Just stay." James turned his face into Steve's palm. He couldn't begin to fathom why Steve was so comforting to him. </p><p>"Always." Steve promised and James' eyes looked so wounded suddenly. </p><p>"I don't deserve all that, Steve." He said softly. </p><p>"You just relax there, and tell me when you're ready to let me help you clean up." Steve settled down on the floor with his back against the couch. </p><p>The pair of them dozed off shortly after, James snoring softly onto Steve's blanket, Steve's fingers in his hair. </p><p>James woke up alone but to a clean apartment. All the take away boxes were gone and he had a blanket over him. </p><p>"Steve?" He called out, trying his luck. His voice was hoarse. He heard a bit of clattering in the kitchen, spoons and forks, cutlery being shifted, a clink of china. </p><p>Steve emerges from the kitchen with a steaming mug. "I'm here, James " he said softly and knelt back down beside the couch. "Here." He offered the mug. </p><p>James found himself staring down into creamy brown liquid with. . . With Marshmallows floating around in it. "Steve is this hot cocoa?" He asked, taking the mug in his hand. </p><p>Steve's cheeks gained a bit of color. "Comfort food." He shrugged and James took a sip. He reveled in the sweet, creamy warmth coating his tongue, the deep flavor of chocolate actually soothing something deep in him. </p><p>"Yep." James stated sitting it aside, he made to sit up but actually found himself crying out in pain. Thus, he satisfied himself with rolling gingerly onto his side. "Steve you still wanna help me uh, clean up?" He asked, trying to be brave. </p><p>"If you'll let me." Steve replied gravely. "Hey, I know it's not easy." </p><p>James slowly nodded in agreement. "It isn't easy."</p><p>"Where do you wanna start? A bath?" </p><p>"Maybe some painkillers?" James laughed mirthlessly. "But yeah, a bath, yeah that sounds. . . Amazing." </p><p> Steve nods and gets up, disappearing into the apartment. He returns moments later with a glass of water and a bottle of prescription pills. He shakes one out and passes it to James, smiling at his quizzical look. "Normal painkillers don't work on me anymore. I have to keep the strong stuff around." </p><p>"Since your procedure?" James asks to which Steve nods. He swallows the pill and half the glass of water in one go. <br/>Steve nods at him, taking the glass back and putting it aside. </p><p>"I'm gonna go draw you a bath. . . Uh, you can shout if you need me?" <br/>Steve stood and headed toward, not the guest bathroom but the master bedroom, where there was, James was guessing, an attached bathroom. </p><p>James settled into his belly and looked down at the slowly melting marshmallows in his mug. How long, if ever, had it been since someone tried taking care of him like this? He knows he should be wary but this is seductive. <i>Care</i> basic goddamn human kindness was so foreign to him that he was practically soup inside at what Steve's giving him. </p><p>He doesn't notice Steve coming back til the man's pajama clad knees are obscuring his vision. James looks up from the worn flannel to Steve's face. </p><p>"Can you stand on your own?" Steve asks him, already extending his hand to help.</p><p>James allows himself to be helped and together they make it to the master bath. James only glances at Steve's bedroom as they pass through it. It's almost as impersonal as the rest of his apartment, save for a dogeared paperback on the nightstand and a stack of clothes on a chair. Jesus did everyone have a fuckin clothes chair? James mused to himself.</p><p>Walking was hell, it felt like his tailbone was being lit on fire. </p><p>The master bath was nice, big tub, bright, artistic light fixtures. "How do you afford this place, Stevie?" James asked in awe. </p><p>Steve smiles kind of bashfully. "I uh, don't. It's company property, technically." </p><p>"Fuck, sign me up." James is surprised to hind himself joking. </p><p>Steve asks if James needs help and James gives him a skeptical look. </p><p>"Look pal, we're friends. This is what friends do." Steve assures him and James finally uses him to lean on while he peels himself out of his clothes. </p><p>Steve can't stifle his gasp at the state of James naked. At first his eyes are drawn to the handprint shaped bruises on his hips, the marks on his neck, the ligature marks on his wrist, but then they take in the scarring. There on his back, are layers of scars only some of which radiate out from the capped off metal of his shoulder. He's sure he'd seen James without a shirt before but. . . How could he miss his back? </p><p>"Please don't look." James' voice is small and barely recognizable, when he feels Steve staring at his back. </p><p>"Sorry." And neither of the men know if Steve's apologizing for looking or for the scars themselves. </p><p>"You need help in?" <br/>James accepts easily and neither of the men acknowledge the pained half-scream that comes from him when he submerges his lower half. He settles back against the tub, trying to keep weight off his ass. <br/>James doesn't make Steve build up any more courage or awkward silence, he just snatches a shampoo bottle off the side of the tub, smells it and hands it over to the big blonde. Steve used a little cup to wet James' long hair and gently lathered the shampoo through it.<br/>When Steve works his fingertips into James' scalp the other man groans pleasantly and Steve sees him visibly relax. <br/>Something warm was settling into Steve's chest, a resolve almost, a want to take care of the half-stranger in his tub. </p><p>"James," he began. "I have some difficult questions okay pal? To help me get a bead on how to go from here."</p><p>James turned to him, locking him in his seaglass gaze.  "No." He states firmly.</p><p>"You don't even know what I---"</p><p>"You're gonna ask me if this was rape." James cut him off. "It wasn't. I said yes, I agreed."</p><p>"There's such a thing as revoking consent." Steve sighed, exasperated.</p><p>"I didn't." James turned back to face forward, trying to end the conversation. </p><p>Steve's next words are calm and measured<br/>"But did you want it?" He asked, dead serious after too long a silence. </p><p>The silence that followed seemed to stretch out for hours, James silently stared down at his knees, just poking above the deliciously warm water. </p><p>"No." He said at last. </p><p>Did he even remember what it was like to do something that wasn't ordered of him? Doing what he wanted and nothing else? </p><p>They finish James' bath in silence, mostly letting that simple word sink in. </p><p>Steve eventually pulls the plug letting the water drain. James watches it slowly spiraling away. "Steve. . ." He says after a while. "I think I know who did the Castle murders."</p>
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